Bleached culture lies dormant in a vault under a rainy jungle. It is all I can do to say my polychromatic prayers and wish for lilacs. Soon I will bloom – like a volcano from the core of an enraged earth, furious to be far flung in a space time continuum that stretches and bulges hideously. Hiding in the trees, birds of hell and bats of burden. There is no cleaning up what was done in the brutal summer of civilization except in blood.
Miniature Moon 