'Tis ridiculous and outrageous to say my life is futile and absurd. The view from the windshield may be a bit messy, but that doesn’t mean my insectile existence is worthless.
I am quite glad that I don't live in a universe wherein some other Being gets to decide my fate, that I am not a vessel fitted for destruction (or grace), but a bug whose fate is decided by the advancing windshield of time.
My life may come to an end on the bespattered surface of a windshield, but I have a legacy to pass on to my larvae, who are a just few laps behind me as they, too, shall meet their inexorable rendezvous with a moving sheet of glass.
It makes a big difference whether I’m a goody-goody insect on the windshield, or a verminous insect on the windshield. It makes a big difference, I say!
Just because my life’s work will go kersplat on a windshield doesn’t mean I my life and labor are valueless. I can use my allotted time for good or weevil.
It’s my philinsectile duty to my fellow flies and skeeters to destroy the pestilent creed of life beyond the windshield, and replace it with a bug’s-eye worldview.
“A Free Fly's Worship,” by Bugsy McRussell.