. . . after a five-mile walk . . .
If you were here you’d be swatting mosquitoes, too—and wasps and bees and deer flies— and let's not forget the spiders, who are supposed to eat the bugs. They are feasting on me, however. Do they think I’m a bug? I’ve been scratching myself to death. When I arrived, I thought let them live, hoping not to rouse the bug gods. Now that I'm still alive I think to hell with karma. I swat them all without a thought.