Such a delicate determination to life. The sinuous embrace, the needled defence. I once saw a bindweed which had slowly, inexorably, thrown coils around one of its own flowers and strangled it.
Last night I dreamt I was going to die. Not in some vague future but specifically within a day or so. I was somewhere waiting, prepared, terminally ill I supposed. When I woke, in the dream, not yet dead but in a shroud-like garment, it was as though I had been slightly cheated. Another day of waiting.
Not a frightening dream, but definitely troubling.