Modernity is the waterfall’s milk as an iced hazelnut latte, and the white-washed stems are glow sticks to break from their mother and watch the veins tear. It’s not as if the waterfall itself is made of coffee, but it’s what we see, and what we think of solitude is not mundane but relief. Four clovers on a stick is just a flag to burn, and no real dirt exists without sewage; therefore—modernity is nothing more than an excess of humankind. Think of this less as a carbon footprint, which exists, but more of a bunch of tiny paws in the mud trying to survive past Maslow into something Freudian, or how about we just say the love of it. Survival-mode defines beyond barbarianism and into a sensory need for the sun on skin, the industrial handprint only an abandoned piece of rust among the white noise hiss so loud the vines themselves speak. Too, I no longer need pens, but sometimes I feel the blood in my fingertips thinking what else do I have on me besides pixelated ink to bind my words to your brain, sticky like the moss dripping down like gooey morning eye drops—or brownie batter.