on memory
The rats remember everything. Every footstep, every curve and dip in the asphalt. Their survival depends on it. They are programmed to always choose life over death. To wander for a while and get crushed. Blown in half. Have themselves sprayed across the only thing they ever knew.
They choose life with the same readiness that death chooses them—utter unremarkability. Their entire existence can be summed into one sound. One singular, beautiful crunch.
stomach rats
Rats are like nails. You pound them into the ground and they always stick. Just like it’s their job. Sink into it and grow there for a while. Sprout cracks in the pavement that reach for miles.
I told a man in the lot that that the dead rats like to stew there for a while. Never complain; never get bored. Like their only mission on this earth is frying in the sun. Griddle rats. You can eat them if you’re hungry enough. Stomach rats. Eat your fill and live forever.
moon, i already know
You never get bored in the lot. Never get bored because everything about it is exhausting. Demanding. It folds you into submission—until tiredness turns into delusion. Until delusion turns into reality. Until you give up and get everything you’ve ever wanted.
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Rats are blind. They can hardly see a thing. Cars crush them and they die. Die without a single chance to live. They never even know its coming. A natural death, some might say. What a pity.
