Am I not A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? Blake The fly sped through the air, towards the Light. The Light emanating from the window was its target. Light is its world. It chases Light. It has an uncontrolable craving for bright white Light. Light is its calling. As it is for all flying insects. Thy fly into light bulbs, car lights, torches etc., thinking that is the Light they search for intensely, all their biref, annoying lives. They get over excited, thinking that their Task is over, get their hopes up, thinking that, once they touch the Light, they have completed Life. They expect Utopia. Instead they crash into hot hardness. They flap and clatter, wondering if this is it, is this the Reward, this End for which they are destined. But obviously, it is not. They career about, helplessly, confused, drained of energy, and fall through the thick Air onto the massive ground. There they then die of a broken heart, or get trodden on, or explode due to the impact of the Newspaper. Their whole body erupts, and sickeningly breaks apart. They die, also, through being poisoned by a thick yellow Mist. It clogs their mouths, melts their eyes, soddens their delicate Wings. Why are they persecuted so? All they are doing is searching for the Light. Ever since they can remember, insects have been murdered for no apparent reason. The Intelligent ones developed protection, such as stings or poison. Revenge, they discovered, is sweet. But generation after generation of Intelligent insects forgot to tell flies, butterflies, moths, ladybirds, aphids, etc., how to protect themselves. Each of them assumed that the other would do it. But no one ever did. They just carry on, unprotected, vulnerable, getting hypnotised into ecstasy by the Light, its Heat, its Beauty, the Reward. So the fly speeds towards the Light. surely, this time, this is it. The Light it has been searching for all its Life. The Reward is in its grasp. But pain shoots through its rancid body. It has been stopped. A force field is stopping its goal. Is this what it is like? It tries once more toward the great white Hope. But again, sever pain occurs. It must reach the expanse. It must. It is why the fly exists. Why it leads the life it does. Life does not matter. Light does. It tries again and again, flies again, etc. Desperation. Panic! Possibilities. Suddenly yellow Mist chokes it. Seeps into its eyes, burning, eating out its Heart. No, no, not now, not yet, not yet, nearly there. It falls into a pool of acid. It screams. No one hears. It dies.