Grave reminders of pure unrest lay deep. With which invokes the latent desire to sow. Nearly as deep as the vague twitch amidst fingertips. Every actual trove of shadow should yield a true line of sorrow. And the determination of one fingertip would uncover all. In dismay and utter hesitation, another. Another. Then one last before those troves bleed deep within themselves. Only after they've discontinued the toils of anguish, trivial even - of questionable existence even - only at that fateful, wistful yet curious, rustle will emit either sigh or gasp. Or yet another grave reminder.
Of pure unrest.
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