There isn't much to tell...
Why does the willow weep? Her vines languish, her core taught. A dome encompassing dew-kissed grass. The steeple cradles earth on, creating and cracking clams. The willow stands over and surveys shells. Fluorescent pearls blush under unexamined tongues. On willow channels, we speed to foggy coincidence where some decamp and glower at the mice, hoping they know the way to somebody who sways and rocks without gripe. Channel dangles Mr. Remainder over caverns excavated and crammed with needles. Channel trusts him to avert his gaze and continue reeling. I've spent the gain on nothing in particular, and I'd love to save up for a dream if anyone on this contraption is selling. The things we cannot see, we feel, and the things no one can take. We can let you hold them in your hand. We will lead to the water. Hold on tight.
"Follow the sound of my voice."