You have disregarded the advice of your friends and entered an accord with the arborist.
He brings you to his special garden at the center of which is a circle of trees.
Next to each tree is a sort of well that is meant to receive a person.
You will be placed in one of these holes with only your head above the earth.
For several weeks you will engage in intense meditation on your novel existence.
However, you will eventually grow anxious and restless.
Others will come and take their places in the holes near you.
You will find it easy to befriend them, but as the months pass you will begin to bicker and experience jealousy.
At length, the affinity you feel for your tree becomes something which you cannot express and you will form a union which excludes all others.
Soon after, young roots will find you and brush against your most tender places.

I leave this old thing here on the ground to decay in the sun's light.
It was a part of me, but it has its own atmosphere now.
It is useless to me. I walk away.
Why doesn't it disappear? Where does its disgusting smell come from?
The stench follows me: on sidewalks, in courtyards, to a bench in the park.
I return the next day. I see people walk on it and drive their cars past it. Dogs stop to piss on it. Nobody appears to notice it reflecting them, no one smells it, no one sees me watching it.
Now old and fetid, but liberated and perpetual; it was a part of me.

Concentrate on the space you wish to enter and
Perceive there a silence.
Effect the discipline of the cupboard, an automatic procedure.
The body folded. Two halves bent on a brittle fulcrum. Limbs stiff.
Arms turned into themselves and legs combined. The sex withdrawn.
A subtraction of extremities; an economy of cavities.
Communication with one's anus.
Two voices combined and destroyed.
Body and mind inside time. Indurated. An exact fit.

Most of us pass the listless days in these cells on our backs, gazing into the darkness which acts as our ceiling. It is all too easy to succumb to the perpetual oneiric existence this lifestyle offers.
The only openings in the cells are a single chest high window on each wall, which allow us to communicate with those in the surrounding cells, and a network of fine cracks that exists on every visible surface. None can say with certainty whether there is anything solid beyond that pitch overhead. To those who seek escape, it seems the only reasonable method is to enter one of the cracks.
Some of us have succeeded in projecting ourselves into these tiny spaces and momentarily existing therein. With practice and skill, these moments can be stretched into minutes, then hours, then days. Existence in these spaces between is usually pleasant, but can be terrifying if one loses his head. Most will agree that the worst aspect of passing time there is the always present knowledge of the cell and the body we will return to.
There are whispers of cells that house decayed bodies. Some think that these bodies are left by those who have discovered the method to exist permanently beyond. I believe there is a way to escape in the aether space of the cracks and I intend to discover that path and to leave a map for the others to follow.

Fine particles are forced from a point on the horizontal mirror.
They develop a gritty smoke which moves of its own accord along the surface.
It gathers to form a series of lines, then swirling, connected shapes.
A mechanical hum fills the air.
Twin brothers emerge from the dust.
"Watch that man squatting in the corner." Says the first.
"Which man?"
"The one who holds his head in his hands and whose tears flow like a river."
"I don't see him, but I can feel his presence."
"He is the source of our uneasiness, his name is Ennui."
"My arms fold into themselves when I reach for him."
"Will we ever reach you?"
The brothers become vague as the mirror loses its color.
Their lines extend infinitely instead of renewing themselves.
"I can be found in the corner of every room." Says Ennui.
Ennui disintegrates, but leaves behind a piece of his shit.
The vertical mirror reflects reality.

There is a ledge somewhere set against a deadly precipice
which Spring's nostalgic winds never reach.
It overlooks the confluence every sewer built by man.
I stand naked and erect on this rock scarcely wide enough for my bare feet to rest flat.
I watch the fluids below roll and fold. All of my lovers past and future present themselves naked in that muck, pulsating like eggs.
A thousand epigones below cry:
"Only to live, to live, to live?"