SCREEN

Welcome to a world of cruel dystopian colour; a place where the wills of people are crushed to smithereens while they writhe, screaming and yelling, for more-more-more, please; a realm of defecating into giant reverberating chambers that regurgitate it all as an intellectual sustenance gleefully chowed down on with great gusto and—mmm . . . yummy—appetite.

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The Tree of Love

I thought (assumed) it would be straightforward enough to find a picture of a tree to match the image written of below. No. Not a single image capturing the forthcoming description; the closest being one alone on a horizon looking horribly like the default desktop image for Windows XP.

It was the height of summer and the tree in question stood on a small bushy bank, rising tall and well above the hedge below. Its leaves were so plentiful and lush that not a hint of branch was visible—an aspect integral to the below—despite being able to see sky through the odd gap here and there. The sensible thing would’ve been to take a picture of my own, but in resisting the march of the smart phone, I’ve had to use an photo—lovely, it must be said—that doesn’t match the image conveyed.

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