Yesterday I was sitting on the raggedy "black" leather couch, eating my lunch (<3 burritos) and glancing intermittently at the ivy facing me and the book in my face. Though I did not feel it at all (where did you come from, ya bastard!), a little brown ant somehow very quickly crawled up my arm and near the center crease of my book. I contemplated the things I would have normally done. Either brush it aside fiercely (certain death for the ant) or close the book and crush it (beyond certain death for the ant), then let it fall to the floor. I instead thought about the value of the ant's life as higher value than the book binding. I tried to coax it out of the crease by several means: first blowing, then with my finger, by slowly closing it without crushing it, and finally by taking a pencil from my purse and trying to guide it out. Alas, that fucker was so confused by the whole ordeal that it kept trying to hide itself as deeply as possible, so into the tenuous binding of the book it fled. As much as my father taught me to be absurdly respectful of books and other such actually valuable possessions, I purposely partly broke the binding of this book (which is invested in cultural understanding) so I could properly herd the insect onto my arm and then blow it onto the floor.
In all probability, it never found the pheromone trail back to the colony and perhaps died victim to a sole or a terrier's tongue within the foot surrounding, but I like dreams and dreaming.