Nigredo Anna Zworykina

Man or mole. Mole had to think. It probably didn't matter at first. It smelled of dim light, lamps made of lavender mint, cognac or chamomile, unclear, how should one know that. Clouds of incense wafted along, flickering in slow motion, citrusy, as if little light bulbs were blinking through the dark corridors, in the fog, soft and ethereal. They entwined the waxy tuber roots, which flowed into muddy walls and the buttery little legs of the iris, which the beaver had watered.
Trees pulsed with balsamic pearls like amber between the mushrooms, whose thread-like slimy mycelium rolled through warm earth. Mole liked patchouli liqueur when it rested long enough like wine; down here in the damp corridors, the conditions were good. The walls became soft towards the end, brown mosses emerged, somewhat peaty, rotting damp bark, then the mole disappeared into the moor.

(With thanks to Sea Mermaid)