North

In the hive there are awards, plaques, timetables, menial tasks to perform.

You're waiting to open anything waxy, like a plasticised brochure or an etiquette label.

Suck out the implant and the chip. Take this pitcher of honey mead and slake your thirst. Help yourself. Wash them down. Suck out the implant and the chip.

You're untraceable. Anonymity is yours. You're anyone consumed.

When the stillborn shopkeeper in a blaze of wings turns counter-phased upon the euphoria of the midday lyric of the selected double helix you'll already have slaked your thirst. You sucked out the implant and the chip. So, anonymity is yours.

I speak with a seal of black in a printed folder.

Together we pulled out the dead, and together we are the dead.