Who can be found when the ground is always on the move? When was our beginning, our mythical tutelage in being and dying and time? Carried on breezes and stampedes, the myriad stifled voices suffer the indecencies of fathers and the colonialism of paternity. And as natural is a square to artificial's rectangle family is a tear-filled stare into history's greying shapes. The future is a graveyard for grandfathers and grand fictions: stories are kin twice removed from the soil's digestion of bone. Advanced greenery signals that life is a parcel from death delivered to the doorstep of survival and breaking and yarns.