Ching Chung Koon

A fledgling bird sits helpless on the ground, its chirps barely audible. It flaps its wings pathetically in an attempt to lift itself off the ground. It had better learn how to fly soon or it won't survive in this cruel harsh world. He avoids it in case its parents mistake his good motives.

Someone must have died recently. The scaffolding is all that remains of a makeshift pavilion being dismantled in front of the crematorium furnace. The furnace is open. Its gaping door reveals burnt wood and ashes within its cavernous depths. Heat emanates from it and smoke permeates the air. Like the mouth of a slumbering dragon, it stinks of death. For a brief moment, he thinks he can smell the deceased and they become one. For a brief moment. 'Why would anyone want to be cremated?' he wonders. 'We're all going to burn in Hell anyway.'

Tolkien was right. Even the purest thing has been defiled. Even if Good still remains in this world, it is marred by Evil. People disgust him. He is disgusted by them. So much that he hates them. Terribly. He's never been filled with such hatred before and it disgusts him even more. The vicious cycle propagates itself. It's one big cycle of hate and disgust.

Even the tortoises dive deep into the green murky depths.