FLOWER POWER

The lily is a crystallization of mass 

production, but extremely difficult to hate.

 

Someone who buys flowers, be it for themselves, the hurt girlfriend, the dead grandmother or the bloody newborn, is a nice person. A good person. He brings colour and joy to others, he brings summer into winter. Put a bottle of wine on the side, and you are the closest you can get to being an angel.

But the business side of the Flower is blossoming, and flowers are a huge fucking business. The flower auction in The Netherlands is organized daily in the fourth largest building in the world. A vast amount of all of the world's commercial flowers travel through it. Sweaty, stressed wholesalers bid on the most innocent and delicate individuals, which, with their divine buds still closed, are brought onto the stage for examination and flown around the world to your local florist.

These symbols of freedom, then sold as joy and goodness, have built themselves an intelligent shield against any accusations of being a commodity like anything else – a waste of money and the environment. In their soft petals and seductive scent lives a perfect veil of evil.

(Just a thought. We are not willing to give up our regular rose dose either.)

NONSENSES

The introduction of an article is a tool,
a means of helping the reader form a general idea 

and attitude towards the body text.

Waking up, I check the time to see if I am still tired. I've slept for eight hours. I am ready to rise, says the clock.


I feel cold, so I check the thermometer to see if I really am.

I feel a bit sick, so I take my temperature to find out if I am imagining it.

I am hungry; I cook some eggs and set the timer to five minutes. The eggs do not taste normal, so I check the date on the box to see if they actually taste bad. Apparently they do not.

I watch a film. I am not sure what to think, so I read reviews online to form my opinion.

I buy tickets to a concert, where I will observe others' reactions to decide whether I like it or not.

I listen to some music. It seems too loud. I check the settings on the speakers. It is not.

I weigh myself. I feel good, but the scale tells me I am too big.

It is snowing horizontally, but I have to take the car to the supermarket. I cannot see, but I drive at 120 km per hour since that is the speed limit.

My GPS tells me to take a left turn ”now”. I feel like I should go in the other direction, but I turn, nevertheless, and get lost.

I drive around looking for familiar corners, but soon the light on my petrol gauge tells me I cannot drive for long.

I leave my car and come across an enchanting landscape. I pick up my camera and concentrate on taking a photo of the view. This way I will know later on in life that I was there, then.

I need to cross the street. There is not a single car anywhere, but I only trust the traffic lights and wait for green.

I take the train. When it stops, the sign at the station says Amsterdam, but the announcement says Rotterdam.