there’s a.fly on my.window
Like anyone cares. He was there last night. He was there this morning. He is there now. Poor fly. His progeny — if he had any, which he will not since there is no girl fly to make this dream a reality — will still be there next week and next year. He is wandering around, bouncing along on some pre-programmed walking algorithm, looking for escape, but all he finds is painful fly.miles of tauntingly clear glass. If I don’t set him free he will die, fall to the sill, and dry into a crumpled fly.ball, dehydrated and still.
