I had a dream this morning that I’d been given a bee in a little glass jar. I put it on my windowsill to get it out of the way. Soon, though, bees had come from all over to surround the little glass jar and see the bee inside. They were treating him like some mystical, imprisoned god. I let the bee out — he was suddenly the size of a ferret, and all the other bees were as small as Tic-Tacs of little buzzing adoration, because the giant bee still ruled them as a benevolent god.
Eventually, we learned that the bee was dying, as he was very old, and it was revealed that he had written a will. He wished to be laid to rest on my windowsill, in his glass jar. The other bees gathered around to pray.
Either that’s a parable on the prisons of nonexistence that bookend our lives, or I need to stop eating cheese before bed because what the shit I don’t even like bees