the_myriad_of_mosaics fyn gula for the one who opened himself, a box whose lid bore the colourful myriad of mosaics, flower, horse, fish, she was surprised by the content, thinking he knew little about the reasons why palestine hated israel, or that milosovich once tampered with ballots. but he liked to be this way. hidden. waiting like a bloom in a shady forest that is found when dead branches are lifted. maybe he had walked enough along these paths, even spending hours escaping a sudden downfall by crawling inside a hollow log, listening to crickets, the rhythm of drips, opening the mouth just in time to catch the drop. drip.drop. then, there where mushrooms emerge and faeries dance, a jack-in-the-pulpit. and what comes from the silent mouth, he has always remembered. 010215 what's it to you? who go blather from