Travel with me. Through my home’s back doors, across the cracked and broken patio, and up the pitted zigzag of cement steps hemmed in by straggling weeds. Past my lawn-turned-jungle to the left and my neighbour’s land-grabbing bamboo to the right. On and on, beyond even the perforated greenhouse–and there, in dappled shade, you’ll find my place of solitude and salvation. Black and silent, the compost bin beckons me like some ancient desert temple, its bulbous contours rudely defying my modernist taste.

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