Dampening sown seams of rainforest green polyester mimicking nature's canopy, weakly holding it from seeping in / and pooling smears of surface tension hesitate before another joins and that tension breaks and escapes to lower ground. 

This clearing in a forest near paths or from paths that interfere with a zone by threat of strange presence, a musk of corpse, milk, wood heady for recipients and acknowledgers. The Red Forest never died, only changed. 

Through the bad connection crackles distance and simulation, stretched and overcome by fits of programming which drenches the motherboard in thick mucoidal charge. Moisture damage to connecting pieces warp the signifiers; flies, tar, riverfoam.  

Dream through hazy layers for a clarity that could be there, a scarily lush forest of scenes in which understanding nothing and everything gives birth screaming to deafening silence.

)

...

"The Red forest never died", a flapping section of hanging fabric, dripping down the shelf like forest canopy. In the distance, the roaring of a waterfall, the buzzing of ravenous horseflies lusting for damp skin, only there is no waterfall but huge concrete stretches bridging the distances between dust and dust at the bare horizon. A dirty trainer trails in dust, leaving a scar in the heat nesting between the weeds. He watches the trail silent, like sinuous snake his eye moves between the the grasses, away from the trail and down into microscopic dunes between weeds now gigantic. And now - grin - here is the forest. It's.. different - but that thought fails to capture anything and lies abandoned like the arm of a broken claw-machine on the ocean floor. He stands up and wipes the sweat from his forehead. Slowly walks through the wasteland paths, invisible, passing next to families laughing around picnics of booze and ash, next to stalls selling sausages burnt hours ago and still cooking, next to tenacious wardens bouncing piecing gazes through the walls like flies trapped in bottles (and so he becomes one with the walls - his breath dust falling through their slippers) and out in the street where he breathes deep and stops. breath, another, and now it's pouring rain and it's dark. this is the city-forest, not the arid archaic city of yellow where he lies like ribs of reptiles poking out of the desert, but the dark-green city where he thrusts his limbs through walls of vegetation, the city of pressure where tongues of deep-blue gush out of the surrounding light and wound the skin - gushes of blood wounding the perfect blue in return. the cities lie one above the other, in imperfect overlap like the cracklings of an international phone-call (in one he expands outward, his empty soul the mute pressure that bruises the desert, in the other all pushes inward and he stretches all limbs outwards to poke infinite holes in the buildup of pressure before he is crushed). it's been ages he thinks and already moves the unsteady foot on the flooded streets of the forest-city, water sucking the trainer away before he gets his bearings so he falls and for a minute struggles against the shallow currents while the trainer sails down and into a drain where spiders will lull it to sleep in cradles of silk. In the other city, he stands naked in caves of ancient sand shaving layers off in tonsure. Here, under the towers of water and lust, mud moss and semen are pushed on his skin and fused until his gaping wounds are caves where ancient bats sleep immortal and his esophagus another alley in the old part of town.