Aschalew plucked an orange rose, which turned to sand that sifted and meandered through her fingers before meeting the dirt between her feet. So, she plucked another, hoping that this second flower maintained its shape and beauty for her to admire a little longer. As she broke the stem from the bush, she pricked her middle finger along with its thorn.

Mr. Candlemeyer’s lawn chair sat there silently, empty, and unfolded on the east-facing patio of his quaint 3-bedroom apartment. He often left his patio door wide open, welcoming the blare of the desolate sun, as it slightly burned a part of the cement ground that the orange patterned lawn chair quietly stood upon. The air of the apartment basked in its introversion while a large pine isolated the kitchen from the view of most of his prying neighbors. Two plants grew side by side in bland colored medium-sized pots, alone, yet firmly aware of their surroundings as they slowly pondered their age and growth. The railing that surrounded the patio was made of thick black iron, and the bars that circled the patio caged its abode to the visceral reality that surrounded it at times.

Bounded by a motionless state of solitude, Fjör found himself sitting cross-legged in the center of a meadow deep in the forests of the Selkirk mountains. The vast, empty yet open surroundings wisped him into a moment of reminiscence. A tiny crowned kinglet flew over his head and into the coniferous trees that surrounded him in a uniquely symmetrical circular fashion. This took him back to the moment when his mother had first brought him there.