I mow grass because it fill me. Because it addresses the senses I have lost through neglect. I like watching a pattern take shape. A good hill. The demand of a horizon.

The children of the neighborhood are contained in fenced roads. The populace in horizontal buildings. But lying on your stomach all such dividing lines are forgotten.

In the war gardens wars take place. Often the small town is fogged by helicopters. Women emerge from the fog, a representation of the government. At this point the popularity of insects as a topic for conversation should not be overlooked.