Hive 1.
Being a bureaucrat means always sitting inside being cold. Why are the air conditioners always turned up so high. Somedays I get to work before the sun gets up and get home after the sun goes down and eat my lunch in the tea-room ... no vitamin D, sitting in perma-frost, pale skin. My ears hurt from the whine of the air conditioning vents, computer fans. I want to punch a hole in the wall and let some of that sunshine in. From here the sun looks tangible, viscous. The heat from the asphalt on the highway running out of town making the horizon wavy, watery. Horizon dripping out of the sky into the land. All that sun washing over the the buildings and frying the grass. You can almost see the grass burning. If I punched a wall it would drip in like honey. I wouldn't steal the sunshinehoney. It's not mine to steal.
Hive 2.
Stealing honey from bees makes me uncomfortable. When I watch that advert on television I don't think I am seeing the same thing as other people. You know the advert I am talking about. Fresh food people. Woolworths. Or maybe it's Coles (why don't they fucking merge already, sick of the faux-differentiation. A choice between two high bulk carrier retailers is not a choice so take it away. Police state now. Fascist state now. Cuba state now). Old man loves toast - loves toast - so much he gets a fresh loaf every morning (a whole loaf? How much toast does he eat? Bread lasts more than a day. That Woolworths shit lasts a year. And you're cooking it. Fuck. Being a day old isn't going to make a difference to the toast, sleep in an hour already). Him sitting at the table, by himself, talking to himself (the camera, sure, but really himself, let's keep that fourth wall up. "Little bit of buttttteerrrr, annnnnnnd- some honey." Close up of the honey. "I stole that." Heh.Heh.Heh. "I love toast." Heh.Heh.Heh. Bee swarm attack. Kill the old man. Honey is for winter. Stingers are for killing.
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