This is morning - it is warm and why not? The fields of corn bend and sing - and why not? People down by the lake take flying leaps into the water - the splashes sound out the words, "people kill", and why not? We are who we are - we create sensational beauty - and we kill. Are we some kind of virus? - transcendental glory to be seen through the microscope - and yet a plague for that which is attacked. An aggressive horror, a nightmare in sepia noir, yet ripe with the flutter of butterfly wings dropping sunlight onto red and blue flowers.