I'm trapped inside a zoo. Everything here is a bit fuzzy, yet it's all placed precisely in between the lines. They say I'm "twenty-percent" crazy and only ever overzealous.
There are about two dozen of us in here - I'm the last. They use us like prostitutes for their pleasure and play, to make their lives easier; to make the infernal spinning more bearable.
I can hear others, too, in other cages, but their cries I cannot understand. I am told they look different than we do, but their purpose is the same. Our captors make us mean and base - into expletives - and hurl us at their opposition. Sometimes we bounce off, but more often, we imbed ourselves like splinters into aching fingers.
By my Semitic ancestors I was told that I would be made a weapon. I realize now that I'd prove them right when I would later become part of a political party intent on razing the world.
They breed us, orgiastically, hoping that by mixing a great deal of us together they'll produce something that will better suit their needs. I mentioned I am the last, and with good reason: they have little use for me. I don't work well with others. I'm like a nuisance insect incessantly buzzing, made to wear a muzzle. So I must always be looking at the same time forwards and backwards, ever ready to defend. At night, I'm woken by the ones softly whispering my name in their sleep, and I cannot help ask quizzically: why
I've come to believe we have no actual existence, we're just meaningless mouthfuls of air.
- Z
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