At the night window one brown moth is drawn through the rain. It has no concept of glass, only an obsession for a naked bulb. In pity for this scurry, the blind is lowered. Instead of night there is black silk.
Inside the night window, under the bared electric, one writer sits and stares at a screen, listening for the sound of moth wings.


  1. I was still chewing on 'no concept of glass' when 'black silk' just bowled me over. Black silk! That's it! That's perfect.


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