We die every moment with its sliver and then are born again the next moment. What dies inside us is born again. Maybe what died was a lily and next moment it blooms as a weed so green that the eyes hurt. A green of a broken soda bottle half buried in a forsaken backyard. But the glass blooms in a moment that is forever. That bloom moment that gave it its green. And then the atoms close their eyes hearing themselves being crunched under a tank, a brick or a red stiletto. The merry crunch is born. Crunch of a wound, of detachment of impermanence that is the only constant.