it was a good morning walk, albeit in a sad, eroded place. in the past the island grew lush, then the poisoner levy came, hacked it back, and sprayed his herbicide, and then, after some period of unnatural death and natural decay, the cycle would begin again. now it feels like the raw, sere stage, like the cycle is suspended at the end
of the impending obombaland, like a ghost that will get a new body soon and a diorama-like setting of erstwhile feeling nature with trapped remnants, bones of persistence, of lost sanctuary. we saw some buds, some woven nests hung with fishing line. did i ever show you? no, yeah, i saw that hanging nest being made. mister got stinky feet from the strangely consisted mud of the lagoon. he was so happy. but everything is tenuous. emotional. i get some heart from what persists. yet i'm dang sad again now, my brains frangible as nature. i get a little heart from what persists in me, if i can locate what it is. right now i'm back to not knowing, my brain is fatigue, and i lack the wherewithal to proceed. this place would be a place that gave me that, and was betimes. now it feels like a memorial of the old sanctuary.