A Fly Grasping Warmth While Perched On An Integrated Circuit

my feelers feel a moldy cheese wheel to the dented and bitten side, slapping pushing, thumbing down, break a chunk and bring close to my eyes to take a look. there are my brothers, they look hither and see my eight thousand eyes gazing upon squirming fatness in the festering fuzzy fungus sauce. not fit to eat or to discard, i hold my brothers' home and look to the wall, then to the floor, and to the ceiling so mottled and cream. just a little less viscous than their own abode, and smelling similar. they have no eyes or ears, but an instinct to wiggle and squirm. so alike are we, my brothers in the curdled gouda. i devoured the wheel whole, for i hungered, and was sated