Sometimes one feels like a fly on it’s back, on it’s last legs, so to speak. I imagine the incessant buzzing screeches mortal turmoil, a desperate plea to cling to life. Though, of course, it is merely the turbine of wings. What would said fly, in its youthful vigour, see when viewing me? Perhaps, said fly would hear the howling of my voice, the thrashing of my limbs, both metaphorically and literally. If I howled, or buzzed, at such volume and pitch would the moon wane? Of course not! Neither the fly nor moon would care less. I would be a mild curiosity of everyday life on Earth: which is, ultimately, the cold reality. I should be human, and put the fly out of it’s misery.