The moss is more than a novelty wig. Carefully note how it infiltrates, appearing overnight on the scalp of a roof, a Rorschach patterned fence, a rain-hugged garden shed. You might stop to stroke this oddity soft as cat fur, oblivious to frost's harsh tongue or the seasons making postcards of the landscape. The moss moves quicker than a zombie horde shambling along the imagination. The moss quietly conquers. Forget the monsters in the overcrowded closet. Repeat they're here, they're here, they're here.
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