Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis

If these were my hands and ink flooded them suddenly, if my feet were embraced by points and lines turning me into stones, would a bird come an take each pebble in its beak, then safely put it on a sea shore and cover it with sand? Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis, about such anthropomorphism of delusional creatures, both the man and the bird.

Neither can I guarantee about a huge giraffe starting to eat the tree in which a dwarf found shelter, clutching each leaf with its teeth until leaving the tree leafless, with a dwarf and his little hat sleeping vertically, dreaming of the clouds barely flying with 5 meters above his head.

The giraffe would eat the bird with the pebbles and I would kill the dwarf while climbing up to the clouds so as to escape the great flood of ink.

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