The Farmer is walking through his orchard in the sun. Harvest time is here. Inspecting each tree with tender love, he smiles to himself, noting the ripe fruits.

The festival in town will soon be here and he will bring his fruits. All his efforts, his patience, and his planting has been built towards this singular purpose. Walking softly beneath the trees, he gently reaches upwards and picks the fruits. The smiles of his comrades flashing in his mind as he displays his bountiful harvest.

In this instance, the Sun is the dirt, the Orchard is a cemetery, and, tunneling beneath, the Farmer is the Ctogo.


Concentrated in their chthonian colonies, the muted masses mutter,

Things of untold age and, to them, an indifferent origin,

The underground jotun of yesteryear, the Ctogo,

Their cities along the stygian streams,

The introduction of a new life is met with the same passion as a dear friend's passing,

That is to say, none at all,

These places were originally not theirs, but those another, whom they held in like regard,

From the dead, springs the gardens,

And with the tending of the deceased,

Arranged, stitched, and tended to,

Some to the ceiling, some to the floor, others to the wall,

As is the Ctogo's single-minded purpose,

That from death's beauty, life might begin anew,

Dinosaurs may come, dinosaurs may go,

Man comes, man goes,

Dinosaurs return, dinosaurs departs,

Man returns, man departs,

The cycle of past to the future, and future to the past, comes and goes,

But the appetite of apathy born by the Ctogo is eternal,

War, enslavement, genocide, and extinction,

What do they care?

From their spores and ashes, the Ctogo return to function,

Nothing to deter them from their gardens,

A creature of humanoid suggestion with rhinoceros-like feet,

Distasteful, drab, gourd-like skin,

No abdomen to speak of, instead, sprouting twin columns to connect hip to chest,

No blood, no heart, a home to emotion,

A slight bulge where a neck ought to be, and yet, no head,

Devoid of words, not having a brain, an absence of thought,

Hands more akin to mittens, but still not fully gloved,

Their nakedness on indifferent display,

Sprouting across their skin and limbs, in glory, the floats of fungi,

Then, come in the islets of chaos, the cancerous crystals,

No two Ctogo have the same combination of colors between crystals, mushrooms, and skin,

So also their arrangement of the three being unique likened to a man's fingerprints,

In life, and in death, that this beauty be allowed to continue and sprout,

Feeling likewise towards the dead of the other species

But considering the living not worth the effort, nor quite as beautiful as the dead,

Plucking them from beneath their tombstones with gentle, inhuman hands,

Discarding coffins as "too unnatural".

However, for their aesthetic artistry, none of them care,

Their beauty is matched only by their absolute indifference to all things not their garden,

In past, and in future, tyrants mined them for food and jewelry,

Dissolving them from this Earth in historic, and prospective, day,

Yet the Ctogo returned from the ashes and the spores of their dead,

Beginning anew the cycle of life, death, beauty, and indifference.