It is the fly that is manic, reeling about in 3-dimensions, while I, the greater animal, sit in stillness, contained inside the parameters of my own composure. It is the fly that is mad; air-crazed wild longing for more space while I, the superior organism, sit here doing crosswords as my muscles atrophy. The fly, insane with desire, smacks its small body against the sheets of glass we erected to better control things. The ducks are fat with bread and service. The cow snacks on garbage. The moth heads towards an artificial moon. The fly, circling for some 30 minutes, distance divided by body size, has walked Land's End to John O'Groats some hundred times, while I, the top of the food chain, sit flexing my brain and index finger, blinking. Keyboards with half the letters missing, soft heels, untested hypotheses, love songs that mean nothing, the absence of vowels, avatars, systems of measurement; this is what they'll uncover as they sift through the limestone. It is the fly that is mad, with its instincts and impulses, slave to its body, futureless and free, while we, the accumulation of all evolution, classify another sub-group of mental disorders and drink tea.