I want to be a fly sitting on a piece of jam toast, I'd taste it with my feet and rub my hands in contemplation and feel this pure insect happiness. Then I'd leave a sticky pink trail behind me, patterned and barely perceptible because of the black of the kitchen slab, then lift off, avoid the fan and fly out through the exhaust pipe. I want to know what the inside of an exhaust pipe looks like. I want to be the ultimate infinitesimal, only not something characterless, not a particle or a germ. A fly would be fine. I want to be a fly.