Friday, May 15, 2009


It is spring and warm. Tiny flies have returned. They provide me company and annoy me from darkness to sun's peeking. Those that are alive dash themselves into my lamp, their bodies tapping against the paper shade like the slightest hail against skylight. Those that are dead cluster themselves in piles in every crevice by the bulb. Those that are between death and life writhe, wings quivering wavering with the gentle sway of bonito flakes on rice. They'll be dead soon. While their legs twitch their last twitches they are in ecstasy. The incandescent bulb is their heroin their coke their Gauloises their absinthe their music. Dying from what they lived for. Knowing the light will kill them. Spasms of passion. Purposeful end. Happily dead. I should get a screen for my window.

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