Slug
In spraypainting a stencil onto a t-shirt I stepped backward in the darkness on a slug, who ejaculated his innards and left a bright stain on the concrete. A turd, maybe. It rolled over and died on me. I deemed it more officious to pick him up by the tail and with my pincer and toss him at least for the grass to devour. An intestine and maybe a gallbladder followed him; why such a stain? He were a respectable slug, probably blessed with kids of his slugwife under the hosta leaf, he looked to have grown his spots honest, but he were no primeval grandfather; he'd not be the first noticed among the horde chewing blossoms at night. Still a meaty crush under my heel, and why? Why such a stain, was burial at grass enough? It was time for bed anyhow, but walking there my rolling fingers produced his spleen out of scratching between my memory and morals. It was just dry grass adhering to my heel, but the adhesive was slugslime?
If certain monks used to sweep before them to avoid injuring insects, it may be because our souls are quite large enough to accommodate a healthy wonder without what becomes a burden in excess: the slow accretion of gnats and grasshoppers.
If certain monks used to sweep before them to avoid injuring insects, it may be because our souls are quite large enough to accommodate a healthy wonder without what becomes a burden in excess: the slow accretion of gnats and grasshoppers.