Ambivalence is the greatest blindness. In the humbling presence of luscious greens of trees and the sweet harmonious melodies of otherwise visceral tendencies, often the beauty ordained by nature becomes muted. A nihilistic shroud cannot help but desaturate the voracity of life as it exists, or as it presents.

Or, perhaps, is it the garish that steals the light from our eyes, or the cacophony that expires the last air from our ears? Perhaps it is this blindness, this deafness, from where phantasmagoria is birthed – is nurtured, is sated.

Then, the letters fall out of place, in a symphony of pitter-patter and fractals.