She sees the island as being held within the bosom of fools. "It is too warm, too wet," she thinks.
The island's long-term hardship is masked by its beauty. The dark, inner palaces, the places a motherhood realm never wants to be--its deathless grave of procreation.
It possesses the passion of a virgin cobra, one with all the impulsive action required for the feeding of insects under canopy, a canopy with deep story.
It was supposed to be a research site, crawling with dimensions of analytical data, controlled by the scientific method.
Travel and destiny combined their forces into something other than fate that holds the island in a space-time void.
There should be a sign that reads: "Go home, you'll live longer."