Spiraling forward, ingesting things before me, filling myself, I gathered it all like an insect. At no time did I wish to have more. Though I wouldn’t have minded wings. For then I could have flown above all that which moved, reassembled as quickly as I could piece it together.

A flyswatter is no match for the mess it makes afterward. I must admit, I made this mess. Insect and killer, both am I. I wouldn’t otherwise admit it’s me, but someone has taken the swatter from me, and instead of ingesting, I am fleeing.
But not flying.