There’s a fly in the woods who’s in love with me. It’s a bit annoying, all the buzzing and hovering, but it’s affectionate. It’s trying to kiss me but it doesn’t know where. It’s so easy to be loved by a fly, out here in the woods: you smell like slick sweat and you are a bright stain of a tee shirt in the dark, like a god of money, of industry. Your are industrial and the fly loves the way you were created. I want to be loved, and the fly loves me. You’re not secure until you’re loved. You don’t mean anything until you’re loved. Love someone, love someone. But I suppose a fly cannot love like a human does. It’s trying to kiss me but it doesn’t know how. It loves you because you are not the same, but it doesn’t know why. It doesn’t attempt to. It doesn’t really know who you are. So I had to break it off eventually. With the fly, I mean. He was too clingy and I’m not worth it anyway.