The Vision of the Plants.

I sat down inside the ruined canvas. I poured the grogue—thick, sweet, burning with the ghost of old suns. As the liquid touched my lips, the jungle leaned in.

The pages weren't written in ink. They were drawn in sap, pressed leaves, and crushed berries. Each chapter is a root system. Each verse is a vine climbing toward the light.

They call him still, though he abandoned his rank long ago. No ship. No crew. Just a compass that spins in circles and a hammock that has rotted to threads.

The coconut does not fall by accident. The grogue ferments because time wishes to be sweet.

Abandoned Camp of the Forgotten Coast, deep within the mangrove veil.

Tonight, I drink to the Captain. And tomorrow, I let the vision grow.