Dawn, then, was a time where things changed element for
element. Air ran like hot spring waters nowhere, with no
sound. The lake was a quantity of steam very still and deep
over valleys of fish and sand held baking under its serene
vapors. Tar was poured licorice in the streets, red bricks were
brass and gold, roof tops were paved with bronze. The high-
tension wires were lightning held forever, blazing, a threat
above the unslept houses.
The cicadas sang louder and yet louder.
The sun did not rise, it overflowed.
― Ray Bradbury

Like the cicada, rise from your sleep louder and yet louder.

The Great Eastern Brood is now hatching, and this is our homage: moist roots, sugarcane, hay absolute, a summer-scorched golden amber, upturned soil, dew-dappled leaves, nootka, hazelnut husk, moss-touched tree bark, and a dribble of 17-year aged patchouli.