Tree of Inanis 

Inanis, the mother, is all that we know—all that everything is. We are the fruit born from her branches, and we suckle toward her endless supply of ether. To stray from her nursing is to harm her. 

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You know that well. Everyone knows that well, for it is embedded in every child. Before common sense, there was obedience, a heavy chain strangling your neck that you have grown fond of. 

Our mouths feed with permanence on her udders because she allows us to—because we are her children. The air itself is not an exception; rather, it is quite greedy. 

We must be thankful to Inanis. She is all that we know—all that everything is.