Status Updates From A Árvore das Mentiras

‘“I did not see your mother at the funeral.”…
“She stopped coming to them after her own,’”

“Her pink, pretty countenance flitted butterfly-like between satisfaction, anxiety, and cool calculation.”

“Our civilization has been nothing but a brief, brightly lit nursery, where we have played with paper crowns and wooden scepters. Beyond the door are the dark wastes where leviathans wrestled for millennia. We are a blink of an eye, a joke admit a tragedy.”