She had been on the surface of the leaf, the leaf like a page, and the page that of a book; then by the margin she had sunk to its stem, gathering in; and now she was burrowing within the opening, down to the threads of the sticthing where they looped and tunnelled in the unliving earth, through the binding, and then out, anchorising, diffusing, radical. Here it begins. Here begins. Here.
-Andrew Zurcher
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