some strange French insect with long, slender limbs is floating around in my room. it flies as if it is dazed, perhaps vaguely wondering why there are two glowing orbs in this world instead of the one orbiting giant it is used to. while sitting on the loo and absorbedly lapping up humbug humbert’s glee at finally trapping his lolita in “crystal sleep”, i was startled by my little phantom of a friend soundlessly floating past my bathroom door. i have never seen a quieter or ghostlier creature. in its mid-air posture, it drags its long limbs at an angle behind its weightless body. almost translucent, skeletally thin and bent-double, it looks a little like a lost spirit just escaped from a soldier’s torn body in a lost war.
but only a little. insect creatures are no real party to romantic notions.
rapidly quitting my toilet activity, i went in search of the airborne alien fully armed with two copies of z’s old newsweek and a grim determination to make sure it wouldn’t get to hover anywhere near my sleeping body tonight. after some minutes of unsuccessful looking, i decided (with some apprehension) to retire back to my bed where the impatient pedophile waited for me to finish his story. halfway through humberg’s passionate ululations about his downy 10-year-old, the lofty UFO has made its reappearance near the foot of my bed and is dumbly bumping into the wall next to me now as i am writing this.
i am wondering whether i should send it to insect heaven or to earn karma points by making it a welcome guest at 701 for the night. krystle the killer, with humbert as her mute accomplice and newsweek as her innocuous murder weapon; or krystle the karmic, safe in the good books of the cosmic universe?