days crawl by and humidity stills the air. the black flies are late this season, though around here, most things are. below the gnat line, girls like me seldom get to die easily, perfumed powders masking the scent of illness, flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches to delicately languish away. we know that thereβs a certain beauty to decomposition, to fungus gnats invading potted soil, to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that rotting is a clock that never stops, tallying each unflinching, humid second while the days crawl by.