Excerpt:
I am the forest’s handwriting, and today the pen bit back.

H2: The Birth of the Bristle

I was not drawn — I was grown.
The paper trembled; the ink attacked.
Each stroke a twig, each mark a mutter.
I carry chaos like perfume.
Ich bin Schwein und Unterholz,
eine Bewegung mit Geruch von Erde.

H3: Snout Against the Silence

My nose knows the alphabet of mud.
It reads what humans forget to write.
Roots, worms, and rumours.
The forest keeps its secrets in lowercase.
I am punctuation in motion —
a comma with tusks.

H2: Dialogue Between Ink and Instinct

Ink: You’re too much!
Pig: You’re too thin.
Ink: You’re messy.
Pig: I’m honest.
Together we invent the genre expressionist oink.

H3: Abschlussoink – The Scribbled Anthem

No line here is certain.
That’s the truth of being alive.
Each curve risks collapse —
each smudge hums survival.
If you look long enough,
you’ll see the whole forest breathing through me.
Dada nods.
The trees applaud in lowercase.