The path winds like the tail of a dreaming dragon through a jungle of floral hallucinations—shrubs that leer, trees that seem to applaud your passing, and clouds that bob like euphoric thought-bubbles from a drunk sky. I was not feeling drunk but not unlike it either.
What a grotesque theatre, what a botanic drama! Perspective seemed to flicker with light and lurched...You do not walk here—you are absorbed, digested, reborn as a whispering idea in the underbrush of sentient foliage. How did I get to this garden of lunacy?

Here, in this voluptuous cathedral of fungal delirium, the mushrooms rise like prophets of an ecstatic gospel, their caps pioneers of a blazing dogma. The air is viscous, the soil is moist. As I walk on the paved path, the warm stones beneath my feet seem to giggle, as they whisper mycelial secrets. Time here is bent into an elegant absurdity that sloshes around your ankles like warm mud: the more you want to rush out of it, the more it will slow you down. Here, you have to accept there is no direction and there is no deadline. Just walk on, steady feet and explorative gaze.

Fronds lick the air with neon tongues, stones are petrified giggles, and we walk through this vegetal carnival with perverse grace. The mountains, sarcastic deities, are leering at us – what do they know? – as we peer through veils of mist. Daydream are thicker here, absurdity is the law.