The problem was staring him right in his mud-washed rural face. The greatest thing to happen to him or his small country village, and he couldn’t share it, with anyone.

Buk was a man of simple thinking, most would ask questions in a moment like this, Buk had one, what next? He recognised it as something ‘not-everyday’, although he couldn’t be sure if it had been designed or not. He knew that neither he nor anyone he knew had made it. But was this a case of pareidolia or had nature really, intentionally, produced THAT WORD? Buk lacked the words to describe it and wondered if anyone possessed the words to truly describe THE WORD on the wall.

Careful to not burn down his cottage, Buk placed small dabs of gasoline across the canvas of the wall, struck the match, and watched in terrored amazement as the fire consumed. It burned all night. He reflected back to the fire, to the wall, to the events that followed. Had he made the right choice? He remembered the wall, THE WORD, the fear. Fire was the only sensible option. It was primal, a panicked response. Buk was a man of simple thinking.