He's inactive alive, but he's scared.
Sometimes he thinks he exists fragmentary,
It's like it's left after the most crucial parts,
It was barely bad-ass, fresh-headed,
a ragged stream. Afraid, my small ones,
But all-encompassingly, it's already
It's over, honey. that will not be given
I'll meet you.
He exposes the tentacles, sniffing for heat.
I'm visualizing myself that we went
into the forest to pour honey on an anthill,
feed the run-off, sweet-like creatures.
...and who thinks of the queen now?
