On top of or through or inside of an image, a small beetle crawled. It had been crawling for centuries, its little legs indefatigably squirming onwards. It had seen countless truculent men rise and fall from power, countless heaps heaped and then unheaped, countless women smile only to once again take up their frown, countless other beetles with countless other indefatigably squirming legs, countless hordes amassed and squandered and then amassed all over again, countless fruit ripen and then rot. It had heard countless ululating voices, countless poorly played songs, countless little lies, countless gasps of breath. It had tasted a few things too, and felt a few things, and thought a few things. It hadn’t smelled anything, however, though surely there were things to smell. People have seen this beetle for centuries, tiny and insignificant, its little legs indefatigably squirming on, but only just recently, only really just now, has it appeared on top of or through or inside of an image.
6 years ago