After aimlessly buzzing back and forth through the timber-framed streets of my quaint little town, not even finding an appealing snack to eat or a friend to annoy, i moseyed on back to the catholic dorm where i’ve been known to spend the better part of my days and almost all my nights. The windows that gave onto the Langegasse street were open, for even though the month of november was already busy packing its bags, the day was agreeably warm and dry. I slid through the doorway to good old room 213 and dropped into my usual routine, flying by the few shelves of books with a tender look in my eye, contemplating myself in the be-speckled mirror above the be-speckled sink, or greeting the single warm light-bulb that hung down despondently from the once white ceiling, then throwing a quick glance out of the window into the silent court yard where the fountain had kindly ceased its estival spoutings, and finally heading over to the beckoning desk and the hard, wooden swivel chair that lived in front of it. This very swivel chair was, however, already occupied; namely, by a rather sizable bug encamped smack in the middle of it. It had a red abdomen, long thin legs and a head that stuck strait out with two large shiny eyes that looked broken, somehow. Its two font paws, at first appearing to be stuck into its head as if it were contemplating its insignificant but necessary existence, suddenly began to move like those of a fly cleaning its mouth (which inevitably reminds one of a miniature evil cartoon character rejoicing over some poor fellow’s imminent demise) or like the wistful hand of a lonely author scribbling nonsense upon a page. Tiny little hairs poked out all over its head, though its back, covered in fantastically ornate black markings, was smooth and i don’t think it could fly.
an unusual portrait