The cold of the gun cannon digs into my cheek and my helmet is fastened too tight so I can hardly open my mouth, but these are details of the individual and no longer matter. I cannot be me right now, not for this dance. There is here no I.
Monkeys don’t speak English and the hairy little creatures with their tough young muscles swing around in their chairs, throwing excrement-coloured things and shrieking laughter.
There’s a dead ant in her cream cheese bagel, but she can’t find the energy to care. It’s ant season after all, sometimes these things can’t be helped. Extra protein, right? Other cultures eat ants all the time. The air is cold and her heart thrums in her chest with the weight of her To Dos, … Continue reading Ant Season