A dead bird lies solitary in the gutter of a crowded urban centre. Insides entangled in an ecosystem of insects, the bird is reduced to fuel for a microcosmic underworld. The dead bird is the view of a small child with his mother. The child disconnects his hand from his mothers and grasps the bird, he loudly rejoices over his discovered pet. Fully laced in the sweaty fingers of the boy, he squeezes tight and the birds eyes bulge and sag from the sockets, bones crunch, blood flows, and millions of merciless maggots erupt from the mouth of the bird.
The boy becomes lost in a swarm of decomposers, his skin shredded and savaged, his bodily form is sacrificed to the hivemind. He wonders if he should not have picked up the bird. He wonders if he should have left the bird in the gutter, “Have I done wrong?” the boy asks, but the bird bears no response and the boy loses himself.
Dared to disconnect for the purpose of gripping death, giddy then galvanized, the naive child resides to a tortured existence. Walking corpses contemplate meaning, mentally managing imaginary existences, society has no space for silly skeletons carrying imperial infestations blanketing the nation with somber reality and plagued purposes. The dead are merely moving, victims of a perpetual consuming, parasites power losing, what are you really pursuing?