Understanding the entire beauty of the world, limitless and existing forever.
Your anchors /// your wait. 
I am the opposite of the Cactaceae. I can exist in no dry desert wanting the water.
The power toward the slow erode. Hard tactile reality, cracked hands, and an ache in my tooth that shoots up and around my head. This is what I woke up with today, what I'll go to sleep with tonight, and hopefully wake to tomorrow. A change in temperature, so severe, the continuing disruption of my vectors, no one thing can ever be perfect in prime. These spells are words or shoes and they'll stay locked together forever once research is complete. Tripped up and over the line drawn in the dirt up above the ground. If you must be a witch, then what exactly could I be? Pieced together from past inferences, more soft glue than hard angles. I have no spikes or sharp edges anymore, and I need oh so much water to survive.
The shortest hand comes round. A slow cull at the end of the season.
There is no harvest of the cactaceae, and I'm just beginning to live again.