(Photo by Adam Baker)

Fruit fly infestation in my room. I don’t even know how. I don’t eat here. The room is not a place for eating. No orbs of food in my trash. Yet they are here, floating. In their way. They have this way of traveling, it is kind of random to my eye, their status in the air pretty much always variegated. Not animated by any desire or instinct at all, just animated, distracted, maybe full of antennae that tune them to unknowable wavelengths. Like a train gliding along a track, through invisible hills. They have a tough time of it, I think. Like they experience all air as molasses and pockets. It is so substantial to them. Then they will rush up to my face, fitfully. Ever since I was a kid they have been attracted to my hair or some chemical process along my body. Years I spent convinced I smelled nasty when all I got maybe is an especially organic exterior. I kill one between my fingers and it does not even have any guts at all, just imperceptibly soft exoskeleton, or, not even, just two fingers, meeting in the air, and the air sheds something.