So you spent the better years of your life all to take a small chunk of the earth and say it is yours, so you can finally sleep and watch a bit of tv and have your pets to run about like mad people slobbering all over your children and spilling their water dishes on the carpet, hail the electric fence! Then so unexpectedly, the earth rebels, a little jungle starts to grow on what is yours. The moon shines all ominous in your window and the wolves and train sounds like a lunatic crushing a water main with a sledgehammer. The grass, oh that! It is out of control of course, and laying naked and all morbid and blacked out and yet sunning themselves as careless as a herd of librarians analyzing the romantic nature of some scummy pond at the edge of a nuclear power plant, these are your dogs! And there the mail piles up, the manure of the scammers and the preachers and the prophets promising how soft life would be, with a little reflection and dreaminess, perhaps, but crucial, oh so crucial, to tame that jungle on your spot of earth. To crush the true nature of our planet as it lashes out at you with its dreams of lust and overflowing. But they have made a machine to help you, some scissors gone mad. This nature thing is the terrorist because the sun made it fulfill itself merrily, though rumors fly out at you a sunflower can count to ten, push it out of your mind precious landowner, civilization cannot exist without your will to survive!