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 they are mayflies, properly, though that ignorance of what they are doesn't preclude me from entering their rapidly terminal existence. Once in a while I leave the massacre to get to other things, and then another wave would come on, and in ten minutes I would decimate that battalion, following their flight with my eyes, looking at the pointless procreation Darwin has mandated they do, adding to yet another clump of meaningless things upon other meaningless things.

 Like so many words repeated unto emptiness, like so many men banging themselves unto window panes, like the entirety of things within the universe - 

 So many fleeting things, only to be rendered into nothing by a hand that knows nothing but the feel of a cigarette and the feel of a glass of wine, attached somehow to an ear which finds small satisfaction in smacking irrelevant things against window panes increasingly getting smudged by insect fluids.

 And after the killing, why write about it, why take a picture..?



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