The weevils chewing through the wall and burrowing into the hollows. Rot sets in. Yet I wake up and the sun is a perfect circle, a ball of fire, a kissing fool’s star. I smile. To hell with the weevils. Let them weevil their way all the way down and through, allow them the happiness of their lark and sabotage, their downsizing of foundation. I will not lift a finger to stop the process of degeneration. After all, decay has its rightful place under the sun, just like everything else. I look out. The sun is a perfect circle, a perfect saw cutting skies into halves and quarters. Its carnage is celestial by nature. The light on the fence dances in pellets and digits, splashes and slash-marks. The sun stalks the world in fingers of light. Same as the weevils chew through the wood and walls without end. Soon a collapse is coming. The sun will make intrepid love to disaster and ruins. The sun will go on enacting the role of orange-bellied Casanova. I will do my part and keep smiling, as if framed in a camera capturing my likeness for the annals of fading.