The world is filled with people who are no longer needed. And who try to make slaves of all of us. And they have their music and we have ours. Theirs, the wasted songs of a superstitious nightmare. And without their music and ideological miscarriages to compare our songs of freedom to, we'd not have any opposite to compare music with — - and like the drifting wind, hitting against no obstacle, we'd never know its speed, its power....

If you walk across my camera I will flash the world your story.

The weeds turned into a jungle where spiders wolfed the ladybugs and wasps dive-bombed the spiders. A world where the new babies of one came from the dead bodies of others.