It’s the season of fire and everyone is out for glory. The membrane between what you have and what you want is distinct; you have to swing mighty to get anywhere. You think you’re different, evolved, but this is still a battle fought with lives, except this time you don’t even get any cardio in. When the forest is done burning, profit margins are the only thing to come out clean. And when you lose your motive and the heat has risen to the top, carried your dreams with it, the place your body still recognizes is not home, but a garden. The tree does not make a sound.