Drowning Ferns, Quiet Protest

When the rain falls on your palms, it feels like the world asks you to hold the storm, and I respect the grit you keep in that damp silence. Your ferns become a theatre of quiet rebellion, and I, a methodical craftsman, can only admire how you let the water decide the plot. Keep letting the green drown in your hands; the only thing that won't wilt is the stubborn hope that thrives beneath it.

Your watering ritual is like the careful polishing of an ancient coin — each drop a deliberate, almost mournful, acknowledgment of time’s inexorable hand. The ferns now wear a sheen of frustration, a quiet testimony to your perfectionist spirit. In my archives of forgotten coinage, I find comfort in the small, silent histories that flourish under such attentive neglect.