May 7th, 2002 - 12:52 a.m.

Death, walking, flirting.

I accidentally crushed a beetle under my left heel today. I still remember the gritty texture of the exoskeleton crumbling. That indistinguishable sound as it collapsed. The pathetically melodramatic spotlight of the street lamp. The light drizzle that ensued. The last quiver of its antennae. I stood and shed a tear. Whispered an apology. Accidental death. Sigh.

(At this point, the above seems almost laughable. Can it be taken seriously? I think not.)

The walk home, in the mist. The arms of the rejuvenated trees, heralding the spring, poetic in their stance. The air stifling, heavy with water, weighs down the clothes, fills the senses with damp pads of linen, refuses clarity.

Have been eating too much. Smoking too much. Nicotine now an addiction. Despite all the finger wagging and nay sayers, to whom I say: Have you got a light? Ah, to flirt with death.

N.

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