finklestein

The commotion of the apiary is tiring. As long there are larvae to gestate, honey will drip. The bees fan out to find flowers to fuck. Again and again with the probing and the suckling and the gorging and the nectar. The nectar was once sweet, now banal. Each bee raping under the hegemony of the queen. Each bee counting nurtured eggs as a fractions of immortality, fornicating to evade death, plumping numerators.

I'm more fond of may flies. They're much more honest about the whole trifle.