Desperately fluttering wings, a moth trapped between the window and the world. The rather ugly brown form pounding again and again, relentlessly trying to reach the light from the streetlamp just outside. I watch it with interest, merely intrigued by the futile struggle. Each time the little moth slams its tiring body against the glass it leaves behind an ashy smudge. I could open the window, and let the little creature fly to the light it’s chasing, but I don’t. Not out of spite, but pity. That moth would just be caught behind another window soon enough, futility is a cycle from one pointless moment to the next. Who am I to intervene? So, I watch from the bathtub as the moth beats its crumbling wings to an ashy dust when finally its little heart gives in and the moth falls limply against the sill. I drain the bathwater and open the window to let out the steam.

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