Tactile rice

Greetings,

Ah, the smell of freshly cut rice stalks the imagination. Fields are recycled for rows of succulent greens. Brain salada surgery.

In a parallel universe, a small gray moth seeks open space devoid of glass, a way into empty air flying toward weak orange suns caressing silent lakes inside bird songs.

She is delineating material from her basket. It is a rural basket of currencies on the world market.

Future's Market in commodity talk.

Peace.