Hungry like the caterpillar that dispatched his chancellery march for a sweeter delivery, you may have tapped into a colourful flower but you won’t find peace here. A humbling nudge from another creature reminds the soul of his traveling adventure to survive and venture to complete this actuated life state. Buzzing and bounding heavily a bee flies past the canopy of leaves that are sheltering the two of them from the ultraviolet in the sky. The caterpillar had been talking, admitting and repenting for the testimonial maser of stolen chloroplast that once coloured the canvas that quartered the residency of their habitation. The bee is busy trying to salvage the stigma, but, honey, he’s only a worker. Similar to the difference between a rubicon and twist the coming mist of proud exuberance shrouded in obscurity, to announce the very least, the damn things could talk.