6.22am. A moth flutters and circles the light above me. The sound of its wings beating anxiously prickles my skin. There are things I should do, quite urgent it seems, but I can't remember what they are. There are things I want to say, quite urgent it seems, but I lack the power to say them properly. There are things I am thinking about, but I can't quite comprehend them-- they shy away from my hesitant probings like mimosas, blend and melt into one another, story after story, detail after detail, a blurry dream within a dream. The moth panics, searching for a way out, hits itself against the stark white light, again and again and again, and then suddenly and swiftly, it drops dead.