He sat with his gaze up at the ceiling his eyes fixed on a strange insect. He stared so long that he forgot what reality was. He forgot everything, every school day or long field trip, every movie night or Sunday Service. He forgot everything, but the insect.

"What are you looking at?" I ask my gaze following his.

"It's a moth." He says quietly, his lips moving only as much as they had too.

"Why are you staring at it?"

"Because it's staring back." He raised his hand and pointed to the bug. "You see, it's watching us. Studying us like we were books." He lowered his hand, but he did not break his gaze.

I study the moth, it was so strange but yet so unremarkable. It was a moth, its wings had the pattern of a mask and its legs were as tiny as pencil leads. It was a moth, but yet I studied it.

As he stared his eyes began to water, soon a waterfall began to erupt from his eyes but still, he stared. I stared too and the moth did not move.

"He wakes," I say and he nods in agreement. The moth then opens its wings and the mask is shown to be true.

"It's beautiful," he says.

"It's awful," I say.

There is silence as we watch.

"I wonder where he'll go?" We say.

"He'll go nowhere," he says. "He is trapped."

"We should open the window," I say.

"There are no windows. Only doors without keyholes."

The moth is silent.

"Why are we upside down?" I ask.

"Because he is right-side up." He says.

The moth is silent.

"When will we stop?" I ask.

"When the moon is burning and the dark becomes a flame." He says.

"It has moved," I say. The moth then begins to move, but only a bit.

"Where has it gone?" He says.

"You know where."

The moth is silent.

"Does Jolene know the stars are back?"

"No," I say. "They are but phantoms passing her by like wind."

"Jolene, I feel sorry for her."

"As do I."

The moth is silent.

"Why are you staring at it?" He asks.

"Because it wants to be admired," I say.

"Why are we staring at it?" We say.

"Because no one else will."

The moth is silent.

...

...

...

We are silent.

...

...

...

We are silent.

...

...

...

The moth speaks.

"It is speaking." We say.

"I can't hear it." He says.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"Is it true?"

"I do not know."

"Does it matter?"

"I do not know."

"Will it end."

"I do not know."

"Does it matter?"

"I do not know."

The moth speaks.

"Your eyes are flooding the room," I say. "The water is up to my knee."

"Abigale is nothing but a mirror." He says. "Reflecting us both."

"Who is Abigale?"

"She is the dark."

"Who are we?"

"We are the flame."

"Who should we be?"

The moth speaks.

"Does it ever end?

"It does not."

"I want to stand here forever and watch, watch until we drown."

"I wish the moth would not speak- my ears are bleeding."

"Does Henry know?"

"Henry cannot know. Henry has no eyes."

"Henry has nothing." We say.

The moth speaks.

"It has moved," I say. Then the moth does move, forever.

"I want it to stay." He says. He reaches up his arm and grabs the moth. In the strength of his hand, the moth cannot move.

"Let it go," I say. "It will drown with us."

"I can't let go." He says. "It will go away."

"The blood is mixing with the water now."

"I can't let go."

"We are drowning."

"I can't let go."

"We are dying."

"I can't let go."

...

...

...

The moth is silent.