Change, and be changed. Roll the ball. Chitin, hunger, dust. Change, and be changed. Dung beetle fathers, the line of the ball, the earth's black grammar, the shell and the crawl. No "I" survives here — only the work of the swarm. Push the ball! Mosquito in a suit, red thirst in the trade. “Choose the dark” — but the dark is already made. The insect life's a mask — a trick you can't evade. Sell the blood! She dreams of perfume, she dreams of fame. Her husband sells matches — it's a hollow game. The wings are clipped, the stage is set. French film dream! Moth at the window, chasing the light. One flicker of meaning in the endless night. No answer, no mercy — just the flutter and the fall. Burn for a second! Beetle in the corner: “There's no grand design. Just the weight of the ball and the roll of the spine.” The dark doesn't answer, the dark doesn't need. Choose the dark! Moth, beetle, grub: one law, one pulse. To live is to turn. To turn is to live. We are the swarm. Change, and be changed. Roll the ball. Chitin, hunger, dust. Change, and be changed. The only thing left is to roll the ball. Change… and be changed… Push the ball! Sell the blood! French film dream! Burn for a second! Choose the dark!
