Once upon a time, (all good stories begin like that), a tendril, shooting off from a weed, grew. as it stretched it’s way upward toward the sun, it found a crack in the wood of a window and decided
to squeeze through and rest in the coolness of the little structure. it wound it’s way in the dampness and grew into a strong vine. then, one day someone cut the vine from it’s root and although it died, it’s skeleton remains, twisted and entwined on the shelves.
I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.
— Henry Miller, (American Author, 1891-1980)