Zaratops

insects all small and black lack panic,  they dance up in frantic trances as i seat myself beneath an eaten tree. i scribble in pink specifically, maybe it means something. a spider with fat legs watches me, and skips onto my shirt. i am not positive if it is my vision failing or my brain all adaze in some exhausted haze but the faces all begin to look the same- every stranger is a face i've seen. acquaintances whom i have yet to meet mean nothing to me. the audience greets me and i reluctantly reply, terrified to space the necessary breaths between tedious reverberant neutral lies- "nothing," i squeak and they giggle lik