Dead Astronauts (Borne, #2)

by Jeff Vandermeer

The smell of death as a rich, velvety sigh.

You wouldn’t understand me even if I made sense.

The tales they told about the trees and how they loved them. Perhaps because trees did not resist. Trees fell over of their own accord, sometimes, as if to prove their love of the ax. The chain saw that felled most of them just completed a tree’s own inevitable thought.

But, in the end, joy cannot fend off evil. Joy can only remind you why you fight.