The milk is warm and its aroma is a delight, adorned with lumpy freckles and embraced by a corrupted sweetness, bitter medieval torture, defeated syrup. In the white estuary the bacteria bathe, my stomach overflows with mycelium, branching out like a fever. They abused my hospitality and took root in my veins without mercy. My heart is poisoned, the milk is fermenting, my eyes are cracking, and mycelium breathes from my lips, waiting for the light of the sun; idiot, not while I am here, winter will be eternal, and the fog will cover the king of light, lover of the vernal.