It’s a dusty, frantic heartbeat trapped in a frail shroud of velvet and dust.
You’re sitting in the quiet dark with just a single lamp burning, and suddenly there’s a frantic, erratic fluttering against the lampshade. It’s an ancient, bewildering madness—a creature built for the vast, navigation-heavy dark of the night, utterly hijacked by the artificial sun you’ve built in your room.
It throws itself against the glass over and over, dizzy with heat and confusion, mistaking a glowing bulb for the moon. It’s fragile, startlingly delicate, and doomed if it doesn't find its way back to the shadows—a quiet, trembling ghost trying desperately to touch the light without burning its wings.
Anonimo
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on "Moth"
Back to the entryIt’s a dusty, frantic heartbeat trapped in a frail shroud of velvet and dust. You’re sitting in the quiet dark with just a single lamp burning, and suddenly there’s a frantic, erratic fluttering against the lampshade. It’s an ancient, bewildering madness—a creature built for the vast, navigation-heavy dark of the night, utterly hijacked by the artificial sun you’ve built in your room. It throws itself against the glass over and over, dizzy with heat and confusion, mistaking a glowing bulb for the moon. It’s fragile, startlingly delicate, and doomed if it doesn't find its way back to the shadows—a quiet, trembling ghost trying desperately to touch the light without burning its wings.
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