A flower hangs on the tip of your tongue, hesitant to lean in the wrong direction. What is real and what is engineered? Unsure of its stance it remains curled. A crowd congregates and under enough pressure, a garden spontaneously combusts into life, bursting with everything you designed your body for. That’s not the right way to say it, but language takes a while to catch up to poetry. After much debate and philosophical quandary, you are resolute in your final answer: there is no sound in the forest without you. There is no smell to inhale nor picture to frame either. The answer to every question is yes.