The fly a very short story kind of Kafka an
Was in Siamese temple and a fly landed on my arm
Anybody had that pleasure as it walks on as if was a trusted figure before a magic lot
a maggot, walking on dead meat
Later to become a mere fly walking on poo.
Well anyway my aunt who may have passed since, no her mom, never hurt a fly,
Would throw roaches out the window in the middle of January
Exposing herself to the bitter Cut of the snowy winter wonderland
( and me? No cutter, gutted with flashbacks all over the place
But now in this Siamese temple had the thought that thi fly knew about perspective and situationally possessed psych and wondered in whereas meno kept wondering like a lost little half baked jew-boy,
All over the place as fortune would have it
But back to fly, the
and…. so he or it or she but it was mostly he,
Took advantage and crawled to the spot that was a braised from some contact with a sharp object maybe doubly bladed,
but more likely a simple cut
and it found that spot and stayed there presumably feeding
Let it stay there remembering a monk of distingshiin answering a novice question of