Look at an Amazonian village with a population of one.

Hear the lone resident’s words, you can’t understand it. But you can hear the melancholy.

Inside what’s left of a home, you see a life shared between this man and someone else. Another bed, another bowl, a game you’re not familiar with but it looks unfinished.

In the fire warming this place is a paper burning. But you can make out: “preservation” “language” and “culture”.

The man has barely eaten. He just watches as birds fly away in a flock.

He doesn’t even notice why the birds flew away. Something is rustling in the trees.

The man hears a bird cry he doesn’t recognize. But he doesn’t bother to look.

Suddenly, there are more cries, but they sound too complex to just be birds.

He looks up and sees what look like large birds in the trees.

They have no wings, just claws, but they carry ropes and hooks as they swing through the trees.

These bird creatures look panicked and they don’t even notice the man.

The man smells something unfamiliar. Nearer the ground but on the same tree are what look like clumps of vines in yellows, oranges, browns, and even purple, but they have eyes like a snail’s, something that look like flowers on the sides of their “heads”, and they seem to walk on kind of bulbous feet.

One of these strange creatures turns and sees the man and his village.

The man is obviously shocked by the sight of this creature.