I will give you a handful of mud, cover your mouth with it, and cover it tightly.
The air is stuffy and heavy, and the rotten black leaves have an unpleasant rancid smell. I will bury you right here, my lucky number 13.
When the struggle gradually weakens and the breathing gradually stops, the sky and the earth suddenly become bright, there is a faint thunder, and a heavy rain suddenly comes. Everything that is suppressed is released, it is the rainy season.
I dug a deep hole and filled it with thick soil. The seeds I planted were soaked by the rain.
I am so eagerly looking forward to it, waiting for it to sprout and branch out, looking for gaps in your head, squeezing its way out, blooming into decaying flowers, and spreading over and over again.