We the people. We the one times 150 million, too big to fit into newspaper headlines. We the ones who dance out of our skin, salsaing to the gothic breeze of dust. Our bodies are shiny orby temples of onyx, granite and jade. Every rock comes with its own color and every color comes with its own microphone and blasting effect. But we don’t mind. We give ourselves wholly to dazzling hues and gleamy talons of witchy rocks. We are swallowing weeds, stomaching what refuses to glitter. The TV presenter says it’s natural, but there’s nothing natural about a squirming earth – a globe folding back into embryo. Except a man be born again. Except the air leaks of pus and compressed carbon. Except the miners worked all night. Except a rig fell in love with tectonics. There’s nothing natural about a disaster. Now, the Earth is reborn. The flowers grow downwards. The air smells of fried kidneys. Our memories are gone. We laugh in colors. And there are no spaces left for graves.