Revenge of the Weeds
We are not in control.
The fastidious man, long obsessed with perfect grass, finally conquered his lawn. The crabgrass was gone. Trees all pruned. Weeds whacked. Tall fescue mowed down. Best-looking yard in town, neighbors all said.
That very night–two weeks before the diagnosis–he dreamed weeds growing out of his own head. He tore out handfuls of green-leaved hydras by the blood-soaked roots. They only cascaded out faster from underneath his scalp. He awoke with a wail his wife never forgot.