Much like Adam and Eve, I believe my main folly to be my original: doubting that you were real at all. I mean, by Lord, what kind of honest fly would just sit there, in a subway car, for 5 stops and more, on that tiny red light right next to the double doors and makes nary a move unless it was not a fly at all but rubber, a child’s toy, or a prankster’s prop. Meant to be worn as cheap jewelry found in cheaper eggs, or to be incased in fake ice and thrown into a drink at parties. Oh we would all have a good laugh then would we not. But not you. Not you, you were real. Resisting my strong focused breath at first but reanimating and rubbing your fore legs together like Vincent Price welcoming us to a home he assures us is not haunted. From a leather chair. With a bear skin rug. That was NO bear skin…. You were that beast. Unwavering and traveling on your way to the far reaches of Brooklyn, into where the borough’s brand loses its sheen, where you knew, I the white shadow of gentrification itself, would not dare let my Sauconys fall. You who could see me with your hundreds of eyes KNEW what I had to do. And yet I let you lie still. Happy to just stare and study and wonder what game you were playing. And when I got off that train, leaving on the same small signal light I found you on, I could tell without even in your Teutonic state that you felt yourself the superior of God’s creatures. And to that I have no answer sir but this: you’re a fly and probably dead.