The Dixie Chicks holding a caduceus or trident or large staff sitting a top a golden throne, ornate and intricately crafted. Sipping tea while their crowns shift lopsidedly in synchronous movement. The clatter of the cup on the saucer. As Saturn moves in it’s usual orbit we see timelapse footage sped up and wonder what it truly means to be alive. I hear the projector whirring, tape spinning, black and white movie plays in absolute darkness. Who else cares to be here? We are points on maps while we are also our own maps trying to find the points. What are they? How can I find them? If time doesn’t exist, why does time seem to trickle by seemingly forever? Questions can be asked and debating until we pick every petal off every flower. I think as long as the centers are intact, the bees will be okay. A name connoting royalty, but it has no meaning to me; no bearance on my reality. I’m a pleb, a common woman trying to make her life work. What royal blood have I, and if so must be quite distance and mistaken.