Frants

Last night I saw more ants than ever, and noticed in myself a weary resignation about it. I've become like the French during the Occupation—the invaders are firmly in control, and there's really not much a sane person can do about it. You wait them out. You hate them, but they'll be gone eventually. I'm at exactly the point that the Parisians must have been the first time they saw German soldiers strolling in the Bois de Boulogne or driving through the Place de la Concorde and realized, with a quiet little shock, that the sight had become familiar and unremarkable.

And sure, another part of me is like the Résistance—I'll keep fighting where and how I can. But just for pride's sake, and not with the idea that I can win. What I plan to do is hold out. And in a matter of weeks, the autumn frosts will come, like the armada sailing toward Normandy that June morning long ago. And I'll be like one of the victorious survivors, riding into a liberated Paris perched on a tank, wearing the requisite black turtleneck and beret, a light machine gun slung jauntily across one shoulder. That's right, you bastardly invaders, sleep tight. Fall is coming. Heh heh heh heh heh.