Flowers as beauty, even imperfect and alive in a garden, feel disingenuous as a argument for the treatment and display of the beautiful: the modus operandi for human-floral relations is in the preservation of cut flowers, a tiny petaled realm of death, a constant display of slow suffocation, a disruption to core purposes of propagation, pollination. Mummified and estranged into jars, antiquaries, vases of reciprocal beauty. Flower Confidential poisoned me against the practice; flowers are a by-volume business that leaves no small trace of poison on each representative of beauty handled and displayed. On Beauty and Being Suffocated.

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