A Sarco suicide pod rests like a dreamy coffin in the middle of your vast forest, swarms of switchblade drones above; the teardrop shaped vessel a strange and neon-glowing outcrop among the tantalizing wild-eyed black orchard of speckled jackrabbits hiding in their holes, a puma dart frog on a muddy mushroom crown, a rotten wood dock and sunken boat, the gold-coin colored snapper fish all go barble-barble in their pale green lake of Lanier. Haunted timber towns and clay packed pigeon-lined logging roads, the ageless rocks look like broken dragon's teeth scattered and littered among the sad fall of light shafts breaking through the permanent branches and marble-sized droplets of dew.
There's no prettier place than Appalachia, girls with blondette hair, the Russian color, the eternal quiet in the field before the war in Heaven; the heavy blue downpours on old and holy tin shacks, the burnt copper and twisted steel train tracks, the gentle orange moss on the fuzzy belly of a great white oak, a bleary botanical garden of baleful bugs and leafy splotches cascading under a night-blinding waterfall, a fat squirrel on a short-stump delivering his sermon, surrounded by saw-dust and an army of crickets, Christ and the crux of our crucifix, blind moles and their little tunnels to nowhere, the scented glass church and humid air is alive with pristine oil and canary-yellow ribbons of acid rain sang, the dark blood clot rose-red blushing petals on the delicate and whispering, hallowed and consecrated water.