Walking through the Woods of Bresdin

The scent of the woods, dead bodies of beasts lying here and there, in a swarm of flies
Your inner feeling is getting thinner and thinner to the extremity,
Your outer feeling is getting higher and higher to the extremity,
The fog is getting thicker and thicker,
He has found himself drawing a ragged mountain,
The universe is full of hydrangeas, the pool of mucus, the withered corn field, then toward the meadow
grown thickly by dandelions.

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