Flypaper (the eye and the womb) Inside the room the stillness abides the sound of a fly hurtling itself against the window. There is a music to it's desperation: Buzz... thump. Buzz... thump. Rest. Music against the sun. White sunlight glides burning past the chitin glass in long and rude thrusts. Hard light but made of silk, it's sticky residue clings like sour milk to the furniture, already covered in dust. Only the velvet couch stays the grime -- invisible sky, trees, traffic, and lactescent sun all have their turns upon the soft contours of the velvet couch only to die and breed flies. Flies and the music of flies, and a polite audience of dead flies attentive on the window sill. Curtains blink against the light, straining to glimpse fly, now dancing, pirouette against the glass. Dead applause from the orchestra pit. Exit the fly through the door opposite the window. White light ceaseless conception in the silent stillborn hour.