We were somewhere around Sisters, Oregon, on the edge of the goddamn desert, a thistle was holding his ground. Purple spikes shimmering like radioactive fireworks, vibrating in the dry heat, and then the bee. Christ, the size of it. Black and yellow like a tiny outlaw in a fur coat, wings rattling like broken helicopter blades, diving headfirst into the barbed crown of madness.

The air buzzed with its manic energy. I could feel it in my teeth, in the back of my skull. That sound wasn’t just pollination, it was some kind of desert sermon. A chemical transmission straight from the insect underworld. The bee knew secrets. Ancient truths buried beneath layers of dust and volcanic ash, whispered only to those reckless enough to lean close.

The thistle itself was laughing, spines twitching, colors too bright, too electric. A plant that had no business being this goddamn beautiful in a land designed for suffering. Flowers shouldn’t survive here. But here it was, thriving on spite, screaming at the sun: “You can’t kill me, bastard. I’ll bloom in your ashes.”

And the bee… oh, the bee. It wasn’t just working; it was tripping through the ultraviolet maze, drunk on nectar, hallucinating the future of the ecosystem one pollen grain at a time. Watching it, I swear I felt the universe bend. Like the insect was carrying not just the thistle’s survival, but my own cracked sanity in its tiny saddlebag.

I raised the camera, hands twitching, sweat stinging my eyes. The desert roared. The world narrowed to wings, spines, and madness. One click, one frame, and I’d stolen the moment from whatever deranged god had scripted it.

This wasn’t just a bee on a flower. No this was Oregon itself, snarling at the void. Sharp, buzzing, hallucinatory. A neon nightmare wrapped in barbs, screaming “You will not forget me.”

And I won’t. Odin help me, I won’t.