Slowly, they tell me, my dark-bark worries grow umbrella-like not unlike dragon blood trees that shade the elephantine deserts of my insecurities. Calm, calm—then: flames climb up wooden ivory towers in a flash, intensely, and then all burnt out. After the ashes smolder, and the forest of my sensoria turns to dragon blood tears, bodies labor motionless for hours, sometimes days, even lifetimes, licking at the red dead resin. Like a hellscape of lost desires, each step I take through my own ruins rocks me back and forward in time, the rants and unbridled shouts, the desire to lie still, and then a slow burn beginning anew. With each leaf falling like ashen rain, a bit more bark also falls away: those jittery, social insects invade like boring beetles and devour me with banality, even while my birdline blood heals their own meted insect bites.