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The Flies The inwardness of things, remote, isolate: We spent the Summer killing fruit flies one by one, at first, and there were thousands of them, tiny, dark and silent, groping along the air. I came home to find them hanging on the mirror, circulating above the oven and the loaf of bread I had forgotten. They lived for maybe a day, barely coming out before they went back in, but breeding, exponentially, even as they died. I wanted to see how far my sanity would stretch, a taunt wire connecting mind to world, so I clapped them dead with my hands and cursed if they slipped through the cracks. Though I was getting better, perfecting a useless art, another one. You bought a bottle of poison and sprayed the room until it shook with mist then watched them drop, wings stuck together, a massacre. Some tried swimming in the mirror, drowning, corpses reflecting, while others lay on the floor, squirming, dead... your practised killing smile- when there were no more flies you tried to kill yourself. |
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