A feeling of joy is a flower plucked from the ground.
The color, the scent. It's so pretty in my hair.
Every day, I pluck some flowers, as though they grew just for me.
A lifetime of peace and nourishment, yanked away in an instant.
All for me. All for joy.

I need more.

I need more joy. I need more happy.

Pluck, pluck, pluck. Every day.
Pluck, pluck, pluck. So pretty in my hair.
Pluck, pluck, pluck. You're going to die, and you, too.

Beneath my feet, a flower stands alone. It beckons to me.
I twist the stem, freeing it from its clinging roots,
Caressing the final joyous moment between my fingers.
But to what ends?
I look in every direction.
And the field I stand in,
The prosperous field,
Is a barren wasteland.
The fruits of my labor. The carnage of my joy.

And that is why

I've decided

I must

Become the flower.