the frog lay between walls so high even ceilings would be unnecessary. every route split into two ways, each choice diverging into more forks than the previous. it imagined the way out, but each option only appeared to lead to yet another option with no conceivable mark of progress. every dilemma was passed with a decision to turn right, with the vain notion that consistency would result well. then it was as if the maze had become a labyrinth--but even a labyrinth has a way out.
this spiral was more of a black hole made of quicksand. every step out of the centre made the hole bigger and the more the frog thought the further it became from the edge. it was a swamp of black with currents rushing in, yet even the rising waterline could not seem to catch the head of the walls; they too were ascending as if in blatant response to the frog's so-called efforts.
the trap was like a prison cell made of dreams, that even desire could not touch, nor hope smell. even if the whole universe was plunged into darkness, the predicament could not grow worse. so the frog sat...and sat... and sat, until a worm crawled by and even the worm was happy. it went about its day, looking forward to the ground and all it had to offer. even the white-spotted black cat pierced the gloom with its fine green eyes. one purr it made and it was content for the day. the porcupine was busy pawing out the shrubbery eager for something interesting, something new. the black bear roared, the eels darted up and down the stream like ribbons in the wind. all the critters of the wilderness had something to live for.
but the frog only had the vision of a wide-eyed vagabond. and to it the topiary of the garden was only a temporary means to an unknown end.
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