The other day I was a bit of lint under my dresser.

I lay motionless in the shade, time not existing for me, as centuries passed by me and days accumulated like little bits of paper. I watched a thousand people build false-fronted saloons with swing doors. Volcanoes developed on my now unused loafers.

It’s too cold.

“It’s too cold!”

One year I saw an ant; he sniffed, felt me with his feelers, then dragged me away. There was only darkness.

Rick the Ant argued unsuccessfully with the other ants that perhaps they should leave apartment no. 7. There were only a handful of them left; maybe they should start over somewhere else.

But they wouldn’t listen. They could smell something yummy in the kitchen, and they all went running toward it.

When the inevitable happened, when they were all coated in cleaning fluid, slowly suffocating on the fumes or drowning in puddles, Rick really couldn’t complain: it was really yummy.

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