It begins in a tough and furry shell until it pops, becomes green and fat, then opens like a wound, blushing and honey-scented and eager for attention, until night, when it closes, protecting itself and anyone else who happens to be passing through. That’d be enough for any observer, but it repeats itself day after day until, exhausted, the parts stretch beyond their means, lose balance, and fall to the ground. This would be its simple end if it were not its strategy, which stays hidden behind a prehistoric glamour. For not many can claim a memory before mammalian success; before oceans had properly formed; before a single name had attached itself to a thing, which is why, I’m guessing, it remains silent, for anything that remembers that much would surely choose gestures over words. But that’s not all, for when I walk past, usually around midnight—after all, it’s just down the road—it appears to flicker and glow, as though within each of its offerings someone is watching television or checking their phone.