Strange holes always appear suddenly in clouds in our nation. We have tried so many ways to repair it. We carry her remains as guided by her voice. It is premature to realize the prophecy of underlying self-destruction.

Mother is forcibly put in the hole. We try to mend the hole as we try to mend relations with her. Our rigidity disturbs her heart’s rhythm, or we shouldn’t try to mend the unmendable.

We interact with this regular, mechanical, organized, and fragile environment, reshaping ourselves to fit in, as we’re never part of it. We are organic, and so is her. She is incompatible, and so are we.