Woolworths survives in the lined pages of an unwilling Tree that was killed without ceremony, and awaits the trespassing rivers of ink which carry the translated language of the invisible world to tell us something we already know but do not yet recognise.

Brands die. Words live the virtuous lie of fictional truth and tell the tale. Brands lie. Words live the truth of satirical life, more familiar than what we ought to know.

Prostrated swine spreads apart from fortune’s pearls of favour. Belly hanging low. Back facing up to the submissive Sun, teasing the promise of the kill.