The ants always win, gambling with their lives. That endless crawl towards possibility becoming eventually life itself. That clarity of hunger and aim, the trails towards feast and oblivion. That endless procession that reward the patience to change. They are devout in their clamorings, rigorous in their rituals. Victory is only the plural of all mistakes and the paths that stay true.
I distill these stolen words, these half-blind observations, smoke seeping into the greedy wind. The dust littered with sprouts and ash. The lingering of a phrase, that warning of some distant fire. The things I say, I will say again, as I break and break against the new. Some breathless promise, some tidy phrase, the effortless way my praise has of finding you.
We ripen in our excesses, in the things we must simply take too far. We always learn, seldom the right lesson, almost never by heart. It takes crowds and walls, strays and fences. It takes border guards to enforce the fantasy of borders. It takes only words to reenforce our most cherished fictions. Nothing noble, nothing pure. We keep what works, the rest decays into myth. These swarms of stories, these golden days.