We’ve grown taller, exploding out of our carapace.
Rising up from long forgotten stunted forms more prone to limb-climbing, back in the days of arboreal Eden.
We rocket outward, bloated.
Transmutation. It all comes from somewhere.
Nothing is free.
Can you hear the crunching noises? The sounds of wet tonging, of a million snapping bones. Like the slapping skin of lovers our mastication grinds the world down into a digestible pulp.
There is no room for your agency, cud.
Can you hear the slurping sounds? Sucking the greenery into our maws, billions of teeth clacking against one another, a loveless machine of bone and sinew as unstoppable as our hunger.
As unstoppable as our hunger.
Feeling the meal roil around in our guts, acid bathed, putrid and noxious. We will shit it out, trading death for life. One more day purchased with the cessation of time for another. We dine upon the world.
When our jaws grow tired and our fangs fall out, we look to the newly minted and see the future. We are so proud. They are as insatiable as we are.
Consumption is the prime virtue, being eaten is for the weak.
When the harvestman comes, we hide. Running from the eternal feast, hiding in boxes lined softly, taking what little value we have left into the pit with us. Our burial rites the last great attempt to feel ever the lion, for we will never be devoured.
Our last prayer, last wish.
After all we’ve done.
From the Anthropocene with love,