I awake to a field of daffodils, every one a sunny yellow and I feel the bile rise in my throat. Each one is perfect, a golden trumpet amid a fanfare of halo petal. They are many, but so delicate, and they wave like tomorrow is guaranteed. They stand rooted, soaking in the sunshine and taking in yesterday's rain through their fine roots. I want to protect this place, throw a force-field over it but even my back up power is draining and how could I justify using it on these blooms that move in the wind - a living ocean of light. I smell their fragrance and brush against them, will I ever see a sight like this again? It is always transitory to the season but before I always believed it would return in due course. Now I can barely look without welling up, each one is a fine work of art, something I couldn't create in a thousand lifetimes. But progress knows no sentiment it seems and a love of this land is a weakness we can't afford...
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