Blumen sind Geil

The language of flowers seems to be a last code of civilising innocence. Why outsourcing our emotions to plants? How to transfer our doubts to words? Flowers are out, so we will soon need them again. They are left-overs from a colourful nature and irritating by their offensive reproductivity. They are products of globalised trade and omnipresent, where ever we celebrate, fancy, seduce and mourn. Which are appropriate flowers for a divorce? Which wreath do we expect for our own grave?