Picture a clump as big as your palm that fits comfortably, but you’re aware that it’s a part of something much bigger. It’s riddled with holes, each roughly the same as its neighbour. Pressing it lightly, I feel a softness on its front but a tough back-hide. It still smells faintly of honey, and in fact it’s hard – like honey that dries on biscuits when you bake them – but not sticky; I can tell it’s old. I run a thumb across the back; my nail scrapes against it haltingly.

The Perfect Ratio; the Divine Spiral. Divide a honeycomb’s holes by the amount of bees living in it and you’ll get the same number as the distance between your ankle and your knee divided by your sole and your knees. Take that number and you’ll find it in flowers and their pollen, in Renaissance paintings, in fossils that spiral on and on like they’re imitating a grand staircase. It’s everywhere, like someone put this number there to taunt scientists with the similarities in nature.

“If you can find this number, you’re two steps closer to understanding how butterflies emerge.”

What a silly endeavor – understanding something as timeless and unmoveable as nature. Bees don’t care about numbers, and frankly neither do I.

I’d just like to know where the honey comes from.

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