Out in the fern patch, infernal skulls and the blooms of death orchids and dissolving wild puddles of glowing fissures, mangy coyotes in their packs hunting the hare. Souls and the trauma of war, the ghostly breath of God growing angry, a world unkind, a world without light and exposed rib cage, roving armies masquerading and dancing in a drunken lavish dress, the burnt ashes of the elderly and traditionalists, children staked and sodomized on wooden poles, soldiers drinking blood, fly-ridden plagues on the vast countryside, a world with vicious, sharp teeth, Satan speaking through the mouths of the Kings and Czars, vampire outbreak in MontrΓ©al, an old red oak falls in the perfect South, a holy wind is howling, judgement, a strange voice whispering neath the stalks of the emerging flowers.