This next prompt comes from the fabulous HanaLena Fennel:
“So you forgot to plant your fuck seeds and expect that this year the field is bare. Except nature abhors a fuck-less vacuum and the field refuses barrenness.
What has sprung up in the empty space? Ears of corn, just ears, the remorseful howl of fucks wasted on the unfuckable. Has the entire field retreated back into plainhood, blanketed itself in grass and clover, disguised itself back into the hill above? Are the rows abundant with poppies and primrose, the perfect paragon of productivity? Are you left with raucous wildflowers, a collision of regret and forget-me-nots. Is this a cash crop, a waste of space, both?”
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