I saw a man eating in the park yesterday. He was just a body filled with hunger, like some fly feeding on the debris of the world. Having nothing better to do, I followed him. After his meal, he disappeared into a rather impressive house, reappearing moments later wearing exercise attire. Once he reached the sidewalk he began running mindlessly, down side streets and up tall hills. I watched from a thick stand of trees as he chased an impossible dream—to perfect a body that can only die. He really was just a fly, merely the dust of a dream—or so I thought.
I was just about to abandon him to the void of yet another pointless evening when I saw her. The White Gaia. I could see her clearly when the man came to a halt, gasping for air, silhouetted by filthy yellow streetlight. She swelled like a tumor of poisonous flesh from the dirty air, looming above the man like the smoke of a thousand fires. This fly-man was important to her—a favored son. I let the shadows of the waxing night steal me from view, and I drifted into a bottomless dream.
I saw my sisters smiling at me. They were giddy with pride. The moonlight gleamed upon their reddened teeth. Then I saw the fly-man. He was seated before a great banquet table, waiting to eat of the world’s festering bounty. The table was spread with all manner of rancid pleasures—severed limbs, rotting fruits, moist bones. My sisters had earned their pride.
The fly-man’s eyes were dead, reflecting only the nullity of earthly pursuits. His life was just a symbol for a fruiting dream, where flies sow their children beneath the white soils of the dead. But I could sense him changing. I could feel his flesh straining to outline a lost dream. Then the darkness melted into the moonlight, the fly-man’s empty hunger filled with silence, and I disappeared into the song of it all.
When I awoke this morning, wrapped in the darkness of abandoned places, I knew the White Mother would lose a child to us. My family and I would meet the Man of Flies.
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