Colony Collapse of the Afternoon

A hive is a factory that pretends it is a family. Hustle culture is the same architecture with worse honey. You are asked to be the queen, the worker, and the smoke.

Bee Sea is the cove where we admit the feed is a swarm. Each story is a forager. It returns with nectar that is mostly water and a ranking. You swallow it and call the afternoon a harvest.

Colony collapse, in this climate, is not a mystery. It is forty minutes that started as one notification. The boxes on the terrace are empty because the colony moved into glass.

The keeper’s job is not more boxes. It is a lid. Close the hive before dusk. Let whatever is left in the comb be enough.