|Contents of a slug trap in my vegetable bed|
Came out, this morning, and glanced into the beer-filled cups in the planter bed. Oh, hideous death!
Whatever it may reveal, I'm afraid I can't even muster any regret for what I've done.
Yes, your very form disgusts me. Yes, in those instances when I become aware of your kind, of your existence, my gut level response is loathing, revulsion. But, believe it or not, that is not reason enough to kill you.
As Pilar said of Don Guillermo Martín, "He had a rude way of speaking and he was undoubtedly a fascist and a member of their club and he sat at noon and at evening in the cane chairs of their club to read El Debate, to have his shoes shined, and to drink vermouth and seltzer and eat roasted almonds, dried shrimps, and anchovies. But one does not kill for that..." (Thank you, Ernest Hemingway.)
You're incapable of even conceiving a reality beyond the here and now. Whether that makes you more or less enlightened, puts you closer to or further from Truth, is irrelevant.
It just doesn't matter.
You drove me to it. You were killing my cabbage.
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