A Bedpost

Don’t worry, Internet. I haven’t died on my garbage hill, or with the galaxy in my garbage eyes, or at all. I’m just a bit under the weather.

It’s been hazy, these last couple of days—speaking of weather. The wildfires have started in Alberta, and the smoke is blowing in. The papers are calling it an early start to smoke season. Smoke season. Four, five years ago, no-one would’ve known what that meant. Last year, the sun was red for nine days, and the sky was yellow. My eyes itched so badly I hardly slept.

It’s too late for us. Soon, this’ll all be for the bugs. I hope they’ll enjoy it. I hope something evolves, one day, with the intelligence and the inclination to look through our old storage devices. I hope it reads this and accepts my regrets. Sorry, whoever you are. Did we leave you a sulphurous world? Do you live short, sore-eyed lives? Are your oceans barren? Does the rain burn your skin?

Well, anyway, it hurts to sit up. I’m going back to sleep.

“Potoo” is a funny word. And a funny bird.

Potoo.

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