Hearing some horry (sorry horror) stories from childhood. The horror was not mine though. But little chicks. Attacked and killed by ants.
Dispite protection, cage legs in bowls of water, the gardener left a broom propped against the cage.
A bridge.
For the ants to move in. And so they did.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, isn't then the horror too? The horror is mine then. Did the chicks suffer? What is it to suffer? The fear of oblivion.
No doubt this is old school. Sleepy.
Like a dream forgotten, there was a glimmer of some truth out there.. then gone.
Like a dream that flips into crisp and bright colour. But then I remember I'm dreaming and it's back to blur. Back to blur.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
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