Syrupy Substance A spot of sweet glue ready for osmosis touched the back cover of my book as it was placed on the table. My finger wiped off the offending matter, enrolling the help of others to dissolve the sweetness (note to self: must wash hands), ordering the diffusion of an all-out warning about a rogue sweet spot, innocent-looking like a drop of water that won’t dry, waiting, perhaps forever, for the coming of an ant. A Trace of Garbage The garbage bag had a hole in it, and the ants followed the path it made from the dumpster back to the building, into the elevator, through the corridor, into the apartment and the kitchen where it all started, or ended. It was an epic story of antesque proportions, telling of unhealthy snacks, empty calories, nutshells, and plain old dust. A forensic ant-analyst concluded a trace of a vacuum cleaner bag had led to a fruitless day of cleaning and dusting, the myth of Sisyphus repeating itself as intended.