One eighty.

Bit of a turnaround. Really it's just inspired by the last trip up to the attic. The grooves in the upstairs windows are filled with the tiny sunbleached corpses of a thousand ladybugs and their housefly nannies. Regina's lost brood. I'd long suspected her to be something of an absentee dam, but being sole witness to the slide of a generation into its own golden dust demands documentation.