An ant lies exhausted after digging, in his little sleeping hole, his private earthy temple of solace. He lies there, finally clocked off from work, writing the most beautiful songs you have ever heard, with his little ant harp, formed from two leaves he had snuck away from the delivery one day. Songs of sorrow, romance, the world a world away, the colour of the sky and the follies of the free, of glitter and of grain. One day he’ll find someone to show his songs to. He is sure of that.