For no reason here are sections from the book I’m writing.

– Insect Life –
There are no pronouns, as of yet, but she is waiting, bristling in the corner. If the universe could perceive without influence, it would watch her crawl and scratch in a dark and lonely place. A time of changes is set upon the town and the players held therein. The pieces move in a clockwork madness, inscribed in years gone by, and recited, by rote, as the night would swallow the day. There are no pronouns as of yet, and the camera of the universe needs servicing. John walks from a small shop, half a block off the street, wiping his hands on his pants as his memory moves as fogs across the long walk home. office in the woods –
Walking to the back he sees a shell of some old thing which may have once been machine, which may have once been plant; its rusted/rooted visage being swallowed by the viral grass springing from the earth. He sees a small child, no more than 11, with a clutch of balloons, letting go of one at a time; letting one at a time get caught in a large tree standing solitary, away from the mass on entangled others.
“Hello. I’m John.” The boy looks to him with eyes half focused on something internal. “Is this the HJ Bonobus Corporation?”
The boy smirks and speaks in a gravel, “This is in fact the property currently referred to by that name. HJB will not be here for another few hours.”
“Oh, well, may I wait with you while we wait?” John is fond of children and likes to talk to them in such ways.
“Would like to feed our friend?” The child with a man’s voice asks as he hands over a balloon and head-gestures to the tree.
John looks confused at the tree, but reaching back into his memory of jumping fences and avoiding parents decides that this would be a good game. He walks to the base of the tree, its bark reminds him of scabs, the leaves a black hole.
“Just let it go?”
“Indeed. The wind and tree will lead the way. Simply let go.”
He releases the balloon and watches it float into the branches and seemingly disappear. He looks imploringly to the child.
“Where does it go?”
“It goes as all food goes. It is ingested and forgotten. You may know over time, or not, so it will go.”
“Sounds reasonable to me. May I sit?”
They both sit on the grass, Buddha style, and pick at random grass. The wait will be pleasant.

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