I respect a fly’s imperturbability. When I swat one away from my food, he buzzes up to my face, and circles off, as if the bzzzzz of his wings is yelling directed at me for my rudeness. He then persists at my food. If I get mad and try to kill him, he will zig and zag me with cunning and speed, but he does not give up his cause.

A fly is always a “he” to me, not beautiful and dirty. Flies are old men who don’t take shit from young punks like me.

Unless I squash them, then they are just dead.


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