Fifteen years ago, a honeybee returning home after gathering pollen in the orchard, witnessed in horror his home being destroyed by a fire-breathing machine held by a shadowy figure. The old man's family picnic, held every spring, had drawn to a close, perhaps hastened by the approaching storm but certainly after discovering the hive held by an old tree next to the farmhouse. Amidst the distant flames, the bee heard thousands of communication channels cry out in pain and go silent. The twilight and the distance made the old man's face unrecognizable. The headwind from an approaching storm made it difficult to fly. Angrily, the bee flew as hard as he could towards the chaos, stinger at the ready, but it was too late. His wings were already weak from his endless gathering of pollen, and his tired body could not make the remaining distance. He remained aloft, but the bee knew it was his end. With his objective changed, the bee spotted an old shed located at the far-corner of the property. As he flew closer, losing altitude at every second, he discovered and entered a hole in the wall where he could lay and remain. Upbeat, pumping drums, and a chorded bassline take you on a journey of this bee's reanimation from death. It starts with the mitochondria of every cell, fueling up and lit-off like an old boiler. Brainwaves, nerves, and energy reconnect. Systems are brought online, and the heart kicks again, pumping blood through an old plumbing system. The bee's eyes once again regain vision, with internal sparkles of light, one tiny facet at a time--he is awake! A few stumbling beats of his wings take place, which then turn into a steady buzzing. With no time to waste, the bee takes flight and soars upwards to the sky, seemingly immune to the effects of sixty seasons! While a hundred feet in the air, the bee witnesses a storm on the horizon. A distant flash of lightning rattles a faded nightmare: images of fire, smoke, pain, anger...and sadness. A disfigured human face flashes in front of him, like a thousand televisions all playing at once! How is this face known? Who is it? After all, the darkness and distance certainly made it impossible to see the face of the figure held in memory. Somehow, however, the bee knows with profound clairvoyance that the moving figure on the opposite side of the property belongs to that same face. Doubt filled the bee’s mind: “But I have only one stinger. How will I seek revenge? What if the fire-breathing machine is brought out once again?" The now old and frail man's family picnic, held every spring, had drawn to a close, perhaps hastened by the approaching storm. The blossoming fruit trees of the orchard are scented heavily in the spring air, pollen dust shaking off by the storm's brisk winds. The storm rumbles behind the bee, creating a tailwind that allows him to go faster and faster. Each passing of a tree gathers not pollen, but swarms of other bees, taking flight and falling into formation. A thousand strong, the bee can sense their presence by his antennae and compound eyes, acting like a rear-view mirror of an automobile. As the old man struggles to collect his belongings being strewn about by the wind gusts, he can sense their presence too. Grandchildren scatter the yard and run into the house; the storm is too close and rain is about to fall. A flash of lightning illuminates the swarm from behind. The man's eyes squint to see, but his brain remains clear and focuses on his gas torch. Suddenly, the sinking feeling of despair and fear paralyze the man; the gas torch hasn't been used in over ten years. After the old tree fell down, and the rebuilding of hives were no more, it was put away; it's purpose no longer required. The torch lies silent, stored away in the old shed,... Located at the far-corner of the property... With a hole in the wall where a bee could lay and remain. ... The old man knew that this was his end.