Friday, 29 July 2016

Why a fly can't.

sweet


I’m in the house now, it’s the first time today; last night I slept outside.

It’s quiet; this room is empty.

It feels ready, as if it were waiting.

A yoga mat rolled up in a corner suggests someone might come and do that, but there is also a bed so someone might choose to sleep.

I’m on the sofa; it’s in the corner. It’s full of clothes and fabric.

And me I guess.

The curtain across from me is closed; sunlight illuminates the corner behind the plant.

There’s a fly.

It can’t find a way out.


I can.

ab/106

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