Chapter 1

Any time that we set out a premise, an ideology, we are opening ourselves up to a range of interpretations. Such a range which make us as a species both wonderful and terrifying and many things inbetween.

Fley had lived in mountain kebinyar for many years following another story. Regular passers by would bring thoughtful offerings to him as they passed through (people interested in mountains tend to be decent sorts). Lovely thoughtful things like pencil sharpeners, doritos, clocks, cheese. On good days, beer or books (very good days, both). It was a peaceful existence up there on the mountain as one could well imagine. Fley passed his days wrestling with mischievous goats in order to milk them. He´d tell stories to the cows who were always so good at listening to them. He was of the opinion that the ones who´d had the pleasure of swaying their heads in affirmation; punctuating those well put together sets of words with their very own cow bell tones, setting off collisions, collusions of molecules between tale and tail produced better milk. There was lots of flora to explore, so he would spend time drawing as many different types of flowers as he encountered (the pencil sharpeners came in handy here - they´re so small and easy to lose). The onobrychis sphaciotica was puzzling him as it was complicated to capture and shouldn´t have even been growing here anyway. It was here that this peace was suddenly changed.