More springy matter, latched onto with light, gleaming mandibles and claws protruding from slight but powerful legs tumbling down and so on; now on the path to wherever it is, laid automatically, a scenic route is good enough, leading around a leaf and over the slowly disintegrating hollow bones of a fallen pigeon, not so poignant as a fallen dove, but who can even descry the difference as they lie there melting to dust (let alone the writer though you are so eager to believe everything he says as though it were a fact of fiction that he was the god of these words. You don’t have to believe me,) and neither does the newly sprayed path, time is suddenly passed, presenting a well-worn trail, a highway digging into red dirt like a river carving canyons, a panoply of legs beating down most delicately following the trail, scenting it further with the most eloquent perfume, perfumes that with their unique entangled scents pull them forward by antennae twitching to its etheric smell-music dance steps like neurotransmitters riding action potentials to axons, pulling them towards the springy matter now dead of purpose, of wanting to move, the will wrung out of it with endless stingers meeting their marks gladly, from bodies that are only mandibles, legs, and those ovipositors that now lay nothing but death for want of egg making organs, the stomach an afterthought, bodies that have left their wings behind to walk the earth to nomadically scavenge along in the circuitous tentacle pheromone paved streets that fractalize into the newly moving-less, which are bit into chunks and carried tirelessly into the mouth of the organism proper, its maw of dirt frozen open at an ominous gape, the entomosarcophagus; the insect flesh-eater.
