It’s been a very long time since I last felt the grass beneath my bare feet. The grass is rare, but still there, yet at the same time it has become a hazard. Shards of glass, tin, stones, bits of iron, rusty nails, and the creatures living amongst them, particularly ticks, which you’d rather not be bitten by, not to mention the humid breeding spots where the mosquitoes lurk amongst the tall grass.

Yes, we can go back and at least not die of hunger because there are still cockroaches, but the monotonous taste is starting to get on our nerves and the hunger keeps gnawing away. Chewing on the hard shells doesn’t help to drive it away, it makes us cough and triggers allergies.

Worms, on the other hand, are edible; if there are still birds, then somewhere, sometime, there are still eggs. I know a good protein rich recipe of worms and eggs mixed and cooked by the sun.

Live and let live is a hollow phrase.

It’s not so bad to die under a rain of beatings, as long as your head rests on the earth; the grass can be smelled and no longer feels threatening.

That belly growing is merely a memory of the past, and the dog, those dogs still alive, not used in a recipe, left and saved their skin. They have vanished into thin air, like the pelicans and potatoes. They are in places where they all defend themselves against intruders and beatings.

Dying in freedom sounds better than dying in captivity without anything to eat or any the prospect of a future, and the clock ticks on; time marches on relentlessly. Without inspiration to at least create one’s own bubble and experience this beauty, what is the point to celebrate life?
No way to start new. Be more fortunated, loved.

Only the birds fly from east to west, from north to south, and have little to endure; they are not shot down… until someone decides that they are the cause of all the misery and a threat to public health.

The void increases.

P.S. I’ve dug everywhere, lifted every paving stone, there’s not a worm to be found. All life in Mother Earth has vanished.
The last moth has just been killed by my neighbour’s hand. With that, the last scrap of rags I own has been saved.
The pouring rain continuous saving pretending wiping non existing tears.