First you took in the view. The sensation of being above everything, filled your pituitary gland with a thick mucus of joy, you thought; are the most superior of people, those who have climbed Everest, or those that done the moon in the 1960’s? Like height becomes important in relation to status, that’s why the wealthy prefer to live in very tall houses, or even better, high up mega-flats, 50th floor or above, the views of whole cities at once feeding into and not so subtly matching there greasy ego and broiled id, their sense of position in the world, closer to god or the potato dressed as god which grows it’s gross green tentacles in the sky. Your superiority complex had muxed well with your status obsession and this literal high-up activity made you feel more able to understand the chaos below, you had earned your sickly perspective you thought. Your mind immediately turned grim, as you thought once more about that sucked and slimy big toe, poking a little indent into the eggy earth below and all the glissing and glossing nonsense. Muck and dirt, creamed in a piping bag and iced in great rosettes between you your toes and your gag reflex started to twitch and your ulcers gave their whistle like an orchestra of drunk children. You snapped out of it and remembered the vista and how this distance from reality allowed you to create and impose your own version, that was easier for you wasn’t it? You swollen gland.
A rose-hip smear had stopped your side-bangs from growing too defined stretch marks from the life suspended above everyone. And as you rubbed a final layer on each paunch you thought of massaging pork belly. So you discovered that the grub ants had routed there activities through your vintage leather satchel, they had gnawed at the dried hide and used it for safety like a tunnel to ferry their cargo of sugar clumps from the crop of sugarcane far below. You felt this was like ridicule didn’t you? Like ancient rites of passage through the palatial grounds of a retired city boy used by ramblers associations. All he wanted to do is grill his meats outdoors and not be disturbed by wanderers cooing over grass verges and bush types. How can you own a section of river? You blocked the holes and tears formed by the ant parade in your satchel with wadded up chunks of peanut butter which you chewed horse hair through until it became like a thick glue or proto-fibreglass. Thanks to this and the copious amounts of ant poison you laid, the ants had all but disappeared and you felt better about your position in the world once more. The lingering and constant fear of a pitchforked proletariat uprising had been suppressed for now by the sticky peanut butter mix.