Small hours

I’ve been writing a bit tonight haven’t I?

—————

About an hour I picked up a piece of paper where a moth had landed and put it outside,in the dark, so that the creature could be on its way again. Unable to escape the pull of the light it would have been dead by morning as so many others before it. I like moths and always have been; absurd as it is,I see a dignity in the quiet manner in which their lives cross paths with my own, quiet and almost unnoticable; and it may very well be that in their nocturnal nature and the curse that afflicts them I see a reflection of myself.

—————-

I was thinking that there ought to be a word invented for that very moment in time when the euphoria of love suddenly vanishes leaving your lover that much less beautiful than she was before.

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