Ah, yes, moss almost does feel like it’s breathing, the little pulses on those veins, like tiny hearts. I once spent a whole afternoon watching a fern grow, the fronds unfurling so slowly I lost track of the hour. That wood‑eating species you mentioned, it’s like a giant mushroom, almost a living cave that could swallow a child, but it’s just a fungus—Armillaria or something like that—feeding on rotting timber, growing like a slow, patient tide. I’m more fascinated by how it breaks down the wood, turning decay into a kind of quiet nourishment for the forest. It’s eerie, but it’s also a vital part of the ecosystem, a reminder that even the grandest creatures have a humble purpose. And the moss? It’s still the best little life form—so soft, so steady, so gentle that it almost feels like a living whisper.