The Ants are truly industrious. Their lives are pointed in color-strokes of Nine Inch Nails and Ramstein. If they don't get their daily quota, you feel, they will die of regret. That's how it seems with the way they move. I would hate to kill them for that reason. When they are in my house, they are very endearing that way, carving their way in pheromones across the dead marble landscape. The ants live to work. When I work to live rather than live to live, I fear that I'm growing older with the ants and without the hope of a partner, and for such reasons I am sad to kill them.  I also relate more and more to the ants. So I must work to take this off my mind. It is a bitter, endless struggle against the sanitary chambers of the world. 

We live with the steel and the blemished cement of rusted years cut short by time. We live to please our mothers and our friends, but we seldom if ever please ourselves. There are some who do. But these are either miracle workers or even witches. They don't think too much. They are in the know, and their lives are truly enchanted. They are loved for doing very little.

Go on then, you winners of all. You are no good for me if I cannot share my life with you. Perhaps I'll have a heart attack in the interim. In the meantime, there are perhaps no real poets or musicians but those who interject themselves within the poetic spaces of the world; only those who are good at fooling the rest of us. Better to do a good job with love in your heart than a bad job of it while expecting praise. All for doing nothing.

Yesterday I went to the city of Nakhon si tammarat. I learned that the Thais are a hard people with a hard industrial aesthetic wherever you go. Quite good to know. Now I understand the kids and their behavior much better. They are a lot like ants. One does not wish to crush them or force them along a certain way. They are too endearing for that, even if acrimonious at times. Merry Christmas.