The jungle is hot and heavy and the sun is turning my eyes red and glassy, they cry now of their own accord. I want out of this land of overabundance - of polyester butterflies and fruit in colours that give me a headache, of everything sweet and strange and 2 dimensional. There are handphones and masses of silent prowling silver beasts and tables of smooth lolly faced watches and the smell of danger that rises up out of drains. And there are titles and condos and rote learning and religion passed between generations like some genetic affliction that touches everyone that breeds into the pool. And rote learning and knowing your place, and acting out your gender role and knowing how to work the system and who you know that can help bypass the innefficiency that will otherwise grow it's creeping tendrils around you until you find yourself stuck, motionless waiting to be eaten. And there is nothing else, just the flashy colour of the chittering jungle, that stops as one, looks your way and eats you up if you threaten it.