A moth gets trapped, glued to the yellow bulb, flapping its wings with noisy movements; movements that remind me of absolute silence. It doesn’t know where to go and what to do. It flaps, with a dumb demeanour, the dull buttery wings beat against the glass incessantly, never resting. I feel sorry for it (haha) and go to sleep, partly also because I am bored. In the morning, I see it inverted on the ground, its hairy legs sticking out and a blow of wind from my mouth pushes it far far away. It’s simply dead.