Plants are the original solar collectors,

leaves bending toward the light without the aid of computers and motors. Plants are like old-fashioned women, housewives with mop and broom and the horror of dishpan hands, bending to the will of the guy upstairs. On a good day, they’ll hang out a flower that means ‘available’, just like hanging out the red lantern, and waiting patiently for a suitable suitor to come and pollinate the Hell out of them. Any stigma attached only enhances the experience, like the wounds of Christ offering validation. Life is a passive experience, sunbathing and looking pretty, creating complex carbohydrates from little or nothing, just a little water and flour and another thing or two, depending on the recipe in the DNA cookbook. The prettiest flowers grow from the ugliest plots, conspiracies of uncertainty, and experiments in nothingness. They crowd the side of the road instinctively, advertising their wares and trying to flag a ride. There’s no time to waste and no time to kill, just enjoy life to its fullest in the short time available, accumulate whatever wealth is available, and be sure to pass something on to the next generation. Go forth and multiply; go forth and divide; make the world a better place without the burden of consciousness.