The albatross lingers on soiled waters, ankle deep and toe dry. Don't I resemble myself, he wonders, more often than I actually assume the identity? Crooked beak and lost steps, slogging and pruning, never minding the silken death that awaits him.
Never mind him; his situation is more hopeful than that of the newt, half starved and ghastly under the pale flourescent glow of post-apocalyptic porch light droning, since the moths have gone their seperate ways and the buzz has given way to flicker. Why cling? Why sit still? Why mull over the humdrum? Bumming has never become of you, tugging has never outdone you, and running has ever worn you out. Even your tail, severed and wriggling has a better shot at regrowing a replacement you than you do of ever finding your balance again. But why cry? Know your plight, carry your cross, blaspheme and excommunicate yourself merrily, without, of course, giving in to the confusion of wayward moths, gnats and those "por si las moscas" flies. Tumble yourself a landslide through pavement cracks and find yourself a forest among the sidewalk weeds. You can even be king; but don't find yourself a forest to be conquered.
Oh, and one more thing: to the quail who eats the snail that fell from flick- desist.