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