Economies of Scale

In the flea market, fleas haggle and spit. They finger fabric with whatever fleas have in lieu of fingers and pose in front of tiny mirrors like catwalk models. Fleas don’t know much, but they know about style and they know about walking on cats, strutting from twitching tail to that sweet spot between the ears. It’s in their borrowed blood, a state of domestic bliss; and if fleas had religion they’d call it Nirvana, but all they have is swagger and sensual delight. When all’s said and done, a flea’s just a flea, but it’s better than being meat. In the meat market no one looks good.

Oz Hardwick