(ii.) Nike shoes stomp dirt, sticks, the idea of exotic, boundaries dissolve in a light shower of bugs, possibly irrevocable parasites, each prick and tingle driving in the unanimous point of view you are nothing more than blood-meal   We protest by running but no use, they see through ink, fly into our voices/shouts even as the swarm descends we crawl, silently consumed like trying to escape a shadow. Please. I want to open my eyes, I want to open my eyes before they rip open my eyes, feed my memories to their children or better still, make me lucid, give me a weapon inside the pocket of my new vacation clothes, sharp edges of Visa Gold, punch it through an army of nothings. The dream is growing screaming from treess as monkeys and birds torture the sensitive labyrinths of our ears with a million varieties of previously unheard complaints; tri-lingual, quatra-lingual, and worse much worse, we are slowing down with knowing we can't fight this, not any more the outside gets in.