Rhiannon; she is a tree of life to those who hold fast to her
There's more than meets the eye when it comes to the world of the microscopic. The naked eye is lost. How to explore the infinitesimal? Oh the things you'll see.
In a post-apocalyptic world not unlike parts of the present, R, the invisible mythical figure at the center of this non-narrative who covets, insinuates, and plots, is sent off to reclaim one last drop of happiness. R meets M.I.C.R.O.s (Mini Intelligent Carriers of Restless Omnipotence), tiny post-Wiccans who spend their time in a kind of eternal dance inside undead techno-cells. R seeks to break free from this and other prisons, from routines, from loops of speech and movement, hoping to create real satisfaction and a certain threshold of originality—an experience, an achievement. The tragi-weird discontinuity of this quest and its failure, which is not further hinted at, may raise general questions about creative consciousness, ego vs doom, and the dream of the crimson collective.
In the end, R is the little man from the children's rhyme, she stands alone in the forest on one leg. Sometimes wearing a little coat and sometimes a little cap. Unearthed for all eternity.