The birds, the rain, and the flowers are all
working to kill me. Because the rain comes down
and it puffs the flowers up, puffs the soil up,
drowns me. So that I have to come to the surface.
And that's where the birds are waiting. Waiting
to pluck me out the ground. I'm almost there.
I'm almost to the surface. Struggling for air.
And they pluck me off the ground, and I think
for just a second, maybe I'm saved, maybe it's
help, no. Because they pluck me off the ground,
and they break me in half, and I barely feel
it, because, you know, I can reproduce myself,
and I don't remember what the fucking term of
it is, I just know I can do it. And so I barely
feel it, but I feel something clip, and then
I feel it again, and I feel it again, and then
I feel nothing. Not everything reaching a hand
out to lift me up is there to save me. Sometimes
they're just there to lift me up so that they
can pluck from me even more than what they can
from the distance that I'm at. They want me to
come to the surface so that they can have selections
of all the good bits. All the good bits. Every
last bit of it. I'm just a worm. Nobody gives
a fuck about me.