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Things in my office, vacant of life, wait-- the earthbrown carpet for the vacuum, paper for a vacancy in a file, a clock for someone to need the time its crystalline cycling the only movement in this small dead world since the poisons entered. Crickets, silverfish, psocids lie about in corners, under papers, behind books. I shall find their skeletons when I return-- brittle, dust-light, empty, their dry insect odor masked by a lingering poison perfume. I shall check the clock; I shall wonder how much time is left. My bones weigh more than an insect's. My flesh hangs heavily upon them. I wonder, will enough of me still be left to interest these insects' kin when they begin their long vacation from us and even our poisons decay? |
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