---a sermon in F minor---
All alone. You sit in makeshift pots and vases; no more than watery, confining graves. You sit and remember the sunshine; the children running up to you and after you. But that's all gone now, and you realize that. All you have is this dark, cold room and these hundreds of prying, scrutinizing eyes all over you. Pieces of you lie scattered about, drying and withering away. You have all been poked and prodded, cut and mangled, and -- worst of all -- planted in decorative cells and lined up nice and neat, making a pretty arrangement for your masters.
One remembers floating in the open air, another recalls with poignant fondness standing in moist, warm earth, energized by a natural Sun. But memories fade, and you are all captives of a greater force now. You learn only what you are allowed to see, know only what you have been told. Your colors fade and each one knows that sooner or later he, too, will be thrown out and replaced by someone just like him. So you choose to believe glorious tales about the trash heap. And who can really blame you? It eases your pain and fear.
The air bites at you with its icy teeth, but more real are the gnashing, gnawing teeth of Time; for another one's has come. As his grim remains are disposed of, you all cry for FREEDOM! For the life you once knew, of which the memory fades with each passing generation. But screams are never heard, and cries are never tended to if the greivance cannot be articulated. It's all you know to do, so you scream silently, there on the table. You scream out with whispered pleas and softly-sung hymns full of words you can't understand. But you are alread dead and just waiting to pass out and fade away.
And when finally your hardened, brittle bodies are carried off to this glorious Trash Heap, and all the mourning has stopped, the cycle will begin anew. But this time, there is a little less screaming for freedom and a little more passive acceptance. The wisest ones hav eall left you, leaving only dust behind. The mangling continues, and the confinements only encroach further. But you accept it as part of life now. It's the way it should be, otherwise the Trash Heap wouldn't seem so grand. You dismiss tales of sunshine and freedom -- such things are dangerous and should be avoided. The cracking stems and petals remind you of mortality, but "it will be better when you die."