People were born from the soil, nine moons after you buried a skull. We grew trees by planting old books. Their bark was covered in deformed letters and stretched-out numbers. Once, we planted a book inside a skull. What grew was a monster that had to be burnt alive. After that, we were more careful.
We planted our last jar of honey, and the next night bees poured out of the ground. They killed all the plants and flowers, and once again we had a clear and empty wilderness in which to grow our crops.
We planted rain and grew clouds. We planted meteorites and grew moons. We rode them out into space where we could plant black holes and grow new galaxies. Eventually in this abundance we grew bored and lonely. We planted a beginning and grew an end.