Thursday, October 07, 2010
Thousand: One Hundred Fifty-Six
stop paying attention to the way. There are flowers here that are remarkably ugly, probably live nowhere else. What bee would bother tiptoeing through that hairy blue-green splatter of petals? Would a butterfly want to unroll her long tongue into those tiny black dead-looking knuckles? The one you lean over to sniff has the air of a fart too fat and lazy even to let the wind carry it. Maybe the bugs that pollinate the plants at the end of the world don’t have anywhere else to go, take what they can get. You pass a wispy column of some
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2 comments:
Brilliant and witty detail here.
What bee and butterfly indeed?
The end of the world!
Y'know, I'd long thought I would be including in "Thousand" various bits that have been kicking around my head for years. The end of the world -- as a place. It's been a destination I thought some character would end up at. Here we are. Whatever will we do here?
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