241: The smallest victory


Flies nine on my ceiling this evening, having entered my chamber with the curious warmth present Northern tides have given. All resting after another day of fussing about getting really nowhere, and they’re not even supposed to be alive at this time but here they all are: escapees of a usuality, entered by a hidden trapdoor in the seasons, a hole or a screen between realms left open. And how fine it is that they can sleep so peaceably at all, with as brief and miraculous, and unwelcome an existence as they live.


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