Flow of breath is snatched from the basket of my lungs as I step outdoors. The sun is bright, like an interrogating lamp positioned for maximum perspiration. I am a bug crawling under the belly of the sun, cursing the evil, stupid bugs who ate all the trees. There is nowhere to hide, nature’s canopy having been stuffed heartily into man’s wallet. The rain comes and washes itself back into the wretched drain, leaving us only with the whispers of drought.
The index is fixed against, the quality spent to higher purpose and deeper pockets, rendering the source to sustain and to perish virtues of the same radiance. You are a bug, frantically scattering from here to there under the ghastly lens, doing what the others tell you is normal and important.
There is no choice but to crawl once on the floor, nearly drained out of the self as I yearn for those efforts to fulfill. They do not fill anything, they just keep me busy as I scurry and fester and rage between the artificial demands of context. The more distracted the better, further distance from the uncovered and bare-face of an empty life commandeered by vacuous appetites and suggestive authority.
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