Squinting, so that the  lumière  grows liquid and time slows to a drool, we can see how all the twisted bees change from walkers to small helicopters when they get out of the compacting wood body of the human-built hive. They float in slow motion across the tide, small smells each waiting to get to your nose, up it, and into your brain, where they will become images, memory, and maybe even reminders of terrible things once done and once forgotten.     Moi, Zoltan Abassid, je ne portais jamais de vêtements protecteurs quand je m'occupais de mes abeilles.