A Green Bottle Fly Takes Stock of His Life
This yard is fantastic. There’s never a shortage of poo. Piles of poo everywhere. Look! There’s one! And another over there! And another! Oh, boy, how long has this one been here? Poo doesn’t go rotten does it? Nah, of course not!
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.