Although camouflaged against the tree, I see Meeko’s eyes shining brightly against the stars and neon landscape beyond. The buildings and streetlights twist, turn, sink and rise mirroring the crashing waves that carry in her voice. Her eyes remind me of that of an owl’s. Wise and otherworldly, they gaze, showing no emotion as my body shakes and heaves half out of fear, and half out of the excitement of where the night is going to take me. It’s true that it’s the tree which is the one moving me through time, and yet the night is the one pulling the strings. Even Meeko would agree with this, if she were capable of taking, that is. Her voice in the song she sings is full of sound and meaning, and yet no decipherable words. If there are words, then she’s grasped the language of the trees and now speaks in a tongue as ancient and as holy as Mother Nature itself. Which is nothing to be surprised at, for the nature of Meeko’s being is something I’ve always known has more to it than what’s bubbling away on the surface. Behind her unwashed sex and spit-dripping fangs and bags around the eyes and all manner of frowns and evols in between, there’s a question mark with a peculiar hum to it. Obviously, this must be it.