A 一つの leaf, folded, can carry the image of a 森 at 夜. We've fallen into one of these leaves. As we decelerate past the broken ranks of vegetables and pinecones, past the palms and their hidden reptiles, the monkeys clutching dolls, the 木（複） that were once 電話 poles and now are decorated with 歯（複） marks and plastic leaves, we only see that everything is starting to tilt. The 地面 isn't where we expected it to be. Night is longer by a few hours here, inches are 足（複）, and everything grows too fast, adapts too well, so that even the clever intruder stands little chance. By the time we hit 地面, we will be part of the 森, covered with leaves like the people in Ovid, our 歯（複） made of bad wood. Any pictures taken from now on will be contaminated with ほこり, 暗い, and 蜂 mites, rendering them useless as visible artifacts.
