Fryx feels something rising.

Too fast. Too strong. Too everywhere.

It climbs up his arms, into his stomach, all the way to his throat.
His filaments twitch in every direction,
as if they’ve decided to live without him.

His feet tap the ground.
His hands grab everything.
A stem, a stone, a flower, then another.

He laughs for no reason.
Then he sings something — anything.
Not a song. Just noise, breath, life spilling over.

Around him, buds burst open.
Stems shoot up too fast.
Flowers open almost all at once.
Around him, life was moving too fast to be peaceful.

He wants to run, to climb, to build, to start again.
He puts things together wrong.
He tears them apart. He replants. He starts over.

He stops for a second.
Not because he decided to.
Because even he surprises himself.

Then it starts again. Again. And again.

— Sënka_