A tiny fly lands on a bagel, concealed on the dark checkered cloth of the table, a meek bystander of those souls´ candid slanders. Clink, clink, glug, glug, haha, more clink and glug come. Dull words paint colourless lives where conventions sprinkled on a commonplace background. Sorrows not named as such filtered through many half a pint. A tiny fly now rests on a pie, wonders where the spices are. Vivid visions of untravelled seas seem not to have place with these detainees. Prisoners of hidden spirits held together by each other´s words of trust. Unconscious unnamed unknown drowned in quality ethanol, cleaning, purging, averting whatever was not meant to be thought or felt. A tiny fly walks on a soul´s third eye, frowned and calcified, slow circles and wonders why nobody is interested in knowing how to fly. No point in standing by, their thoughts or wishes stifled in a jug. The tiny fly is ready to say goodbye, dreaming in the next life to be reborn in a butterfly.

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