The ants on my table doesn’t know the dangers of marauding into my table-top waste basket; an expedition into perilous grounds, most probably suggested by a delusional worker that believed of the world of discarded candy wrappers found under and between crumpled paper of flustered miswritten words.


Ah, the foolish band. Only a single line, not accompanied by the occasional diligent soldiers that would’ve been something more impressive a sight perhaps. Up they march into the unknown, with the scant promise of sweet, sweet food for their brethren, disregarding danger, waving away the rationale of safety in larger numbers, or safety away from the sitting giant, now watching them with some sort of fascination stemmed from ennui, itself rooted in oh-holy-macaroni the marvels and wonders of a university-night, and heavens help me that it’s only the first week of the semester…


Down comes the wet cloth, like a yellow and coffee-stained tsunami. Micro-fibre qualities of the cloth ensures their entrapment, and subsequent slow suffocation, should they remain in it for long. Into the sink they go, water carrying them down the pipes and into the sewers and into the dark dank world of eternally pungent water.


The giant laughs maniacally and shuffles back to this room.


********


Oh holy macaroni. I’m bored.