An insect took a little rest on my hand last night.
It was tired, I could feel it.
It's tiny fragile wings were so intricate and exhausted.
I think it had been drinking,
I had definitely been drinking,
I had definitely been drinking,
We both suffered from the same affliction,
Fear and tiredness.
It moved, I flinched, it flinched and took flight.
It manoeuvred over my treacherous table,
A productive industrial area of empty glasses: my disassembly line.
As I watched it flying, or staggering, I felt bad.
Like, maybe it was drunk?
I didn't know.
Can a bug be drunk?
It looked drunk.
It appeared like it was unable to make clear decisions, for itself.
The bug wobbled its way towards the open fire.
I looked away.
I couldn't bare to think about what happened next as the fire crackled.
But I couldn't help myself.
I looked.
I tortured my eyes and I looked over to the flame.
And there it was torched and turning in the ash.
Sadly, it still had hope.
Sadly, I still had hope for it.
I pushed myself away from the table like a superhero.
I lunged for the insect, but my legs gave me away to the floor.
My defective legs sold me for nothing,
To an unconscious dream on the cold, hard, tiles.
And maybe as I lay, dreaming of the fire.
Maybe something else lunged for me.
Something too big for me to understand.
And maybe that other big thing, fell and failed.
And maybe something bigger lunged for it.
And maybe hope perpetuated the cycle of failure.
And maybe we are all drunk and flawed
And searching for salvation like superheroes.
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