shift
A large billowy moth crashes repeatedly into the ceiling, drawn to the remaining warmth and imperceptible glow of a lamp that has been turned off since the evening. To a frightened listener in the dark, the thuds, which are uniform in sound despite their frenzied origin, echo like fast-paced footsteps on the pavement outside. An open window facing the street reveals nothing. The stillness becomes peculiar. The threat has invaded. It must be coming from the other side of the wall behind the desk; someone running nervous relays up and down the driveway. There is not enough light to observe or even suspect that there's a wild and tireless moth banging itself, possessed, convulsing in its chaotic memory. There are no means to fathom these displays, these puny shreds of instinct. One prefers to freeze in dread over the broken silence and the seemingly closing sound that could only be the familiar traces of the ever conscious beast, a deranged human being, creeping in the late hour.