The frame keeps its shape (the bordering flowers welcome all to their feast), to accommodate a different representative of this bee-kingdom (direct from the box walls of the hive, now flat in a 2D shape) Once the new bee is inside the frame, your eye locked on its shape, you are perhaps drawn perhaps to wonder about its inner life. Motion in the light, labor in darkness, the coherent crush of smell and repetition of all things, the sudden sensation of age... there is no stillness in any of these moments. So why does this bee pause, as if drowned in a sudden flood of melancholy molasses, a reservoir that flows over and into the hive from a hooped barrel of the stuff accidentally placed on top as a lid-weight by a foolish bee-master who is now at the pub, a stout in hand, as the grim molasses seeps through the staves, rushes out over the top rim, either expanding in the heat, or malicious with some life force not ordinarily attributed to mute man-made molasses... seeping across the hive lid, down over the edge and then UP under the rim and through the bounding crack, whistling like liquid helium, erasing the air and lives of the stock within?