The whole terrain seems preternaturally fertile to them: they sprout tall, wild and uncontrolled out of every inch of ground and every crack in stone, contained only by the aged, but stern walls around the cemetery, in a gold so strong and so lively it puts every flower and jewel in the metro area to shame, in a scene so visually loud it almost drowns out the silence that shrouds the whole place. 
	It's deathly. 
	Beyond the inexplicable rural silence of Lumiar, beyond the natural silence of a graveyard, birds don't chirp, cicadas never buzz, no matter the heat, nor does any other insect. It's like the dandelions suffocated everything alive in there. The flowers seem to watch you, after that thought crosses your mind.