The Affection of the Honey Bee and Other Nondescript Activities

In the beginning god created man. Several thousand years later happend, chaos insued, and the population of the planet man had inhabited, of which they called earth, was toiled in an inbringing of palpable destruction. Father against daughter and mother against sex, the planet embarked on an ethical journey of reform and fortitude. However, dictators and tyrants emerged, religions emerged, poor eating establishemets embellished with bright golden humps and little red headed girls resembling pipi longstocking joined the fray. Life was an adjusted reality of bright screens and intermediary communication, the face itself faced dire extinction and the voice was gaged and thrown down a city regulated disposal.

Man was angry, maybe God was angry, and the honey bee's were angry.

Man revolted, lied about freedom, and put aside real problems.

God sipped a piña colada.

The honey bee timidly packed its window up and tuned out.

Below in tumoltuous cries, the honey bee hid, waiting for his chance emerge. Sadly, it shut down, pumbled by society and man and God. It felt pain, endured heartache, and relived its past 20 times over shuffling memory cards in an out, bussing shipments of ideas via subway cars and small neuotaxis. Lengthed, it tightened it's grip to discover what the saving grace of the human race might be: to save them from their selves.

Failing, the honey bee collects the garbage today. He boxes amazon shipping at a warehouse in Montana. He busks on corners of champaign bars, and mills on the backs of carrier pigeons. He is lost, forgotten, smoldered in the ahses of burnt bodies. Revitalising in each breath but falling into pitfalls each second. He is ammased: downtrod. But people fail to see the honey bee. So he fails to see them.

God fails to see the honey bee.

Love,

Sarah