Emptying A Cartridge At The Sun.

It seems long days and the prairies radiating warmth are slowly being swallowed, as they annually are, by a creeping arctic presence. I can feel the perforations in my bones involuntarily offering it shelter, resulting in a perma-subcomfort core temperature. My bed looks more inviting everyday. The cold air brings with it a tension, an apprehension, and fuels my desire to leave.

I thought about how easy it would be to go live in the jungles of China. A half hour bike ride in any direction from Nanning will take you there. I could wake up, commute, exchange english lessons for noodles and joutza during the day. Plant some vegetables for night snack, live under a small canopy, and wash my clothes in the polluted river. At least for a while anyway.

I have ants in my pants. And that is alright, because ants are forever obedient, forever working to pull their weight, forever communal and coexisting. Ants never question, they have a duty, and they fulfill it regardless of cost or sacrifice. I have an admiration for ants' lives. I prefer them in my pants.