Dead flies of autumn fall heavy on the wet grot
Hello there are stars in the sky, the sunset was pink.
The fly I brushed off my cheek. It couldn’t be bothered to fly away so it fell down dead and shrivelled on the desktop; presumably, it had a passive death wish.
And it’s almost always dark. Before the snow falls to reflect it, the wet brown grass seem to be sucking all the daylight in.
But it’s frost, like the powdered sugar on a princess cake. It’s thawing in the sunlight, but where the shadows are, it’s still white.
Isn’t that something? A powerful omen in these trying times, with flies falling down dead or stuck dead on the ceiling, that the shadows are brighter than their surroundings!
Essentially, the flies will become dirt in a final state of metamorphosis, as we all do, I guess.
As we all do.
Isn’t this life awesome (in the terrible sense of the word)? And still I feel tired exhausted, it’s no problem at all, relating to these dried up shrivelled flies