Like so many meaningless things
The mayflies on my window become an astounding litter of corpses once the afternoon rolls in. I do not even bother with a newspaper, I just kill them with my hands, leaving wet smudges on my window and underneath my fingernails, what passes for their blood thoughtlessly wiped on a cigarette, or a glass of wine just as carelessly drunk. Sometimes these things bang themselves against the pane, sometimes the live ones try to mate with the corpses of their kind lying dead on the sill. Or sometimes they would even mate in the air, becoming cumbersome, heavy, weighed down by each other. They are easier to kill that way - I do not have to summon the patience or the hand-eye coordination it takes to follow them until they are still enough to kill. Though wherever their flight or libido takes them I stand outside, massive and heavy like a god, and crush them just as unheeding as they are of the death that awaits them as evinced by what they are trying to mate with. I don't even know if t