It starts with a garden of paper. When the universe was divided into components, you asked me to be responsible for style. Don’t expect much. An orchid dismantles itself within the first few seconds. The inner text of the daffodil gets lost in introspection, processing indices that we did not know existed and laughing at us. It’s easy to confuse symmetry with truth. When an element changes its livery, does its spirit follow suit? The tulip’s opacity is diminished by ancient fashion systems, such as Platonism and Linnaean taxonomy. I’m trying to isolate the global variables; I’d take locusts any day. Language overruns its container like a scandent liana, tendrils drinking the void of content, janky and angular, more intractable than any mortal creature. That’s the thing about layers; only geology comprehends them. My hope is to float above the render-tree, to be positioned absolutely, outside the flow of the page, and its reflow. Can I be both a chrysanthemum and a machine? This wild iteration of order and weeds, this growth of something in layers, cascading.