Behold the Verde—a pint-sized enigma peeled from the crust of a distant blue planet that smells faintly of ozone and Tuesday. At first glance it looks like a dropped punctuation mark from a cosmic sentence, but under starlight it whispers in chlorophyll Morse, announcing: “I am not trash; I am taxonomy.”
The upper bulb is a frost-kissed helm, speckled like moon mold; the lower stalk coils like a shy comet trying to pass as spaghetti. Locals claim the Verde grows wherever the planet’s sky forgets it’s supposed to be serious—on napkins, cliffs, and sometimes the inside of socks. When threatened, it performs a perfect impression of an ordinary cotton swab, thereby achieving invisibility via boredom.
Scientists argue whether it’s mineral, vegetable, or existential crisis. One lab fed it blues music and it nodded. Another exposed it to sunlight and it wrote a poem about rain. Consensus: the Verde is a mood with a wrapper.
If you meet one, greet it politely, offer it a square of paper to stand on, and never ask, “Are you green?” On that blue planet, colors are just rumors—and the Verde prefers mystery to hue.