Trees have deep immanent wisdom. They can create informational nets to prevent other trees from the threat of parasites or diseases. For kilometers, mycelium builds its net which is free from junk data, commercials, or politics. Insects are the next layer passing the genetic information of the plants through pollination. The sexual organs of the trees nurture bees with sweet substances. These bees form species diversity. It's not selective breeding. It's a constant non-terminate act of creation. I live with no view of any sense of humanity. It is a race on wasting electricity, water, and the earth's body. I could turn off my electric devices, eat all the plastic items accumulated by me, and block my airways to stop releasing carbon dioxide. But these actions won't be efficient, as other people won't do the same. That is why I want to show them the dazzling beauty of the ecosystems, a part of which they still have a chance to become.

Each component of an ecosystem plays its role as in a theatrical play. This theatre owns Platonic knowledge. There was no rehearsal. But there is no improvisation, too. It is a recollection of what has not happened yet but was happening forever. It is the threshold of a painful experience of an insect or a flower, making to feel several pairs of jointed legs or membrane tissue instead of labia folds. In an aesthetic frenzy, the brain will force your eye to see in facettes. It is the extreme rate of awareness through close observation.

Here they fly in the reversed direction, into the wind, smeared with pollen, spraying honey drops, dissolving in the air since the juice is evaporated from their fur. The fruits hang down like being cut and suspended with ropes. Heavy jewelry leathery. Swollen vessel-shaped trunks covered with spines borrowed from a martyr's apparel, and scraps of clouds lazily rolling over the wind, sticking into the tracery of roots. These roots and branches, stabbing then into the cracks between the pieces of asphalt, then into the unusable dirty air, with their wooden elasticity, draw a psycho test for the most seasoned pervert. They are mutable and varied-aged. A green-stem branch adjoins a petrified one. It is as if you had several arms, one is barely covered with fresh skin, one is almost decayed. Once I came to visit this pair of local male gods in search of new organs and pieces fell from them. Pink and rubbery, but touched by sweet-sour violet rot or exotic puffed mass spreading off the wind, but dry. I saw green birds. These birds were alien, just like my gods sucking in asphalt and concrete. We are all foreign, alien, and mixed. Ecology has no pure voice in this seething mess. We accept and relove rather than filter and reclean.