# 2 ~ all different / but the same

We have moved the moving earth. We have cut it, melted it and poured ourselves new rock faces, hollow ones into which we hive and collect our shiny things. We have become the flowers that grow and bloom and wilt into bones. The things we touch have been refined, as if the world were not fine enough. It needed cost. Process. It needed fingerprints. We vacation to reconnect with nature as if we do not touch it every second of every day, as if it is not the mother of every object that brushes us. As if it is not our very skin. Now we look through glass and do not see the sand.