He stood where the mycelium net split into neon fractals, wearing a velvet robe stitched with spore-print galaxies. His voice wasn't sound. It was a sub-bass hum that softened the edges of your fear.
When the trip turned sharp and jagged, he knelt — not to your height, but to your hurt . shroomsq daddy
He didn't hold your hand. He held the space around your hand, so every tremor of yours became a question, every question a tendril of new growth. He stood where the mycelium net split into
And somehow — somehow — falling felt exactly like being held. Want me to adjust the tone (more humorous, more erotic, more surreal) or turn this into a poem or dialogue instead? shroomsq daddy