1 note &
After years of grip-fisted, rigid-fingered refusal to swing or twist or fall, to waffle or rock or bend, after a lifetime of straight-up, straight-ahead thinking and taking the unbending position, Fungalfist is suddenly seized by an urge to follow the arc of the sun. To spin and pitch, to twirl and drop and plunge, to give in, finally and at last and after all, to the gentle coaxing of gravity.
As you can imagine, that doesn’t work out so well.
