Sap

Plumes of static smoke burst in waves from grey-gone lines snapping fiber by fiber. Between and from and into fraying tendons, some plumes are lost, dissolving in joists of day. In fists of nearly jolly bone lay instruments, gemlike, speckling floors. Doctors bags of Polished Vials and saps neatly arranged feed slime molds or moss. No insects near these bags.

Fed into the instruments, Polished Vials click into place; load one and play it to find it scanning lost smoke, dissolving it, adding a copied composition to the Polished Vial. There, copied compositions combust into sap. Your aligned eyes' mind overloads with another's personal, past tale and its many future events. Heal. Find another plume.