IN CROWDED ARCANIA Wandering bugs cannot know as they scuttle pit-a-pat over a composting jungle floor, crawl and fly up stem and trunk rising into more edible green, their mission is feeding themselves to bird and reptile, mantis and spider and random mammal insectivore, some fraction surviving to pre-conceive the number required for another season of relentless predatory work by everyone all food-chained together as innocents digesting trillions of micro-neuron cells evolving thresholds of involute change, opening a mutant brain to another germ of self-conscious thought into power, till one child of a Pliocene tribe, delerious in dread of stealthy fang and claw and guilty with knowledge of good and evil, interrupts their grim munching on cannibal fruit to plead they stop and answer the question "WHY must we sharpen our tools to kill and probe the bloody secrets of war and possession - would you track the hunting trails of Sun, Moon and Stars ( ?! )"

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