Overhead swelling white masses pass, riding distant winds heralded from the East, clumping together into distinct bands upon collision with the surrounding pressure, forming ripple like patterns as they go. Their wisp interweave the transitioning sky glow, which passes from a light blue to an impenetrable navy which is apex to the sky dome; there appears no real distinction, and to an occupied mind heaven appears a consistent smear, never breaking or delineating any of its details, printed like an immortal painting on the ceiling, which from this height rest low. Birds tweet above, but I cannot find them. When looking anywhere above the horizon, a brilliance singes my cornea, and so my curiosity is punished, and so I look only to what is grounded. The rich earth, composed of finely granulated black elements and clumpy porcelain clay, harbors a botanical variety; on the trodden path nearly all are sprouts hardly distinguishable, while the surroundings immediately flourish a few feet away, almost entirely shrubs blooming in arrangements of orange, crimson, and the occasional lavender. It is not overpopulated, however, but instead moderately occupied - each plant has it's space, enough room to stretch its leaves out and bask in generous light, and never be oppressed by another's shadow.
But, such tranquility cannot be eaten. I am hungry, and have been since awakening. It may be disclosed then, that I had only been hungry for a span of 30 minutes, and that the night before had seen bountiful gorging - this is no counter-point. What matters is not how long for, nor how great a person's hunger is, but simply that they are hungry. And my hunger did not arise as a mere emptiness, which could easily be satisfied with filling, but instead felt as the nonexistence of a particular object. What was missing was a specific sweet and sour saturation of my tongue, which I came to desire when waking up to a dry mouth and visions of pomegranates.
With a little perusing, and induction from vague resources, I came to suspect, or more honestly, hope, that if anywhere in Kumogakure, I could find pomegranates in the Nimbus Delectatio. This I believed because the moisture and richness of the environment would be suitable, if only history had seen to their planting here. And so, I find myself over the river stones and into the brush, with hair still moulded from a night's sleeping, and clothes disheveled. A few goats bleat about, grazing on specimens of their preference, but they are not the sort to eat this fruit, and so their aims are ignorable at the moment. But I do not know what animals eat pomegranates, and so this is only a possibility - for I only know now what I see them eating, and see that amongst those things there is no pomegranates, and so conclude that they do not eat pomegranates. Instead I should put forward: if pomegranates are around, and if these goats do not eat them, than these goats do not eat pomegranates. But I am no closer to the goal, and now as befuddled as I am hungry.
Desperate, I move further on toward the Ancient Forest, weary and slow footed, with no apparent haste.
But, such tranquility cannot be eaten. I am hungry, and have been since awakening. It may be disclosed then, that I had only been hungry for a span of 30 minutes, and that the night before had seen bountiful gorging - this is no counter-point. What matters is not how long for, nor how great a person's hunger is, but simply that they are hungry. And my hunger did not arise as a mere emptiness, which could easily be satisfied with filling, but instead felt as the nonexistence of a particular object. What was missing was a specific sweet and sour saturation of my tongue, which I came to desire when waking up to a dry mouth and visions of pomegranates.
With a little perusing, and induction from vague resources, I came to suspect, or more honestly, hope, that if anywhere in Kumogakure, I could find pomegranates in the Nimbus Delectatio. This I believed because the moisture and richness of the environment would be suitable, if only history had seen to their planting here. And so, I find myself over the river stones and into the brush, with hair still moulded from a night's sleeping, and clothes disheveled. A few goats bleat about, grazing on specimens of their preference, but they are not the sort to eat this fruit, and so their aims are ignorable at the moment. But I do not know what animals eat pomegranates, and so this is only a possibility - for I only know now what I see them eating, and see that amongst those things there is no pomegranates, and so conclude that they do not eat pomegranates. Instead I should put forward: if pomegranates are around, and if these goats do not eat them, than these goats do not eat pomegranates. But I am no closer to the goal, and now as befuddled as I am hungry.
Desperate, I move further on toward the Ancient Forest, weary and slow footed, with no apparent haste.