The man in the wax, part one
There’s a lump of years aged beeswax, in the shoe box where forgotten thimbles and such of similar ilk abide. The testament to the industry of countless insect hours under a sun. Coloured black brown, richly marbled with the kneading of my fingers, annealed with the oil of my grasp. Should there be a man inside it, I’d think he’d likely want get out. Now he’s calling for more wax.
