Plan for People
A winter fly buzzes behind the venetian blinds, distracting me from my laptop peregrinations. How dare it interrupt my nightly pilgrimages to delicious nowheresvilles? When I turn off the ceiling light, it finds my screen. And then I feel the pathos of the creature. It crawls slowly over the words and images, our weak glow. Ersatz sunlight. The fly is slow and bedraggled. Why was it born in winter? Oh right. It was like spring for a week or so. The planet is dying and confusing everyone with the false warmth that the dying feel and share. The cat comes over and puts his nose against the fly. He declines to eat it. I scoop it…