That fat lipped plant, stiff and hairy, ground in cast iron mills distant as Armenia, steeps. Mint, as common as vanilla in this non-George Jetson futureworld, was once as wild as this. Did they think that we would not drink tea is this newfangled century ? Ponder with me as the succulence slowly enters the steaming water, water which demands that these leaves release their essence in a sexual flow. This struggle, this demand instigated by us, atavistic almost in it’s antiquity, defines the parameters of our humanity. It enumerates the functioning of that tight gray apple, the neocortex. A brain, tired of killing, puts leaves in warm water and relaxes by the fire on a warm neolithic evening.