Wooly World: The Cradle of Abstract Life

He stands where yarn vines hum with breath, roots stitched from dreams, leaves soft with death. A jungle not of soil and bark, but woven thoughts, both bright and dark.

The wool remembers every scar, each loop a hymn from lands afar. Yet in his stillness, time unwinds— a cradle shaped by tangled minds.

He is not lost. He is the thread. The jungle speaks the life he led.

Made with love and wools