"Most people love butterflies and hate moths, but moths are more--interesting, engaging."
"They're destructive."
"Some are, a lot are, but they live in all kinds of ways. Just like we do. There's a moth, more than one in fact, that lives only on tears. That's all they eat or drink."
"What kind of tears? Whose tears?"
"The tears of large land mammals, about our size. The old definition of moth was 'anything that gradually, silently eats, consumes, or wastes any other thing.' It was a verb for destruction too..."



I have about stopped drawing. I have about stopped photographing. No motivation, no inspiration... I have stopped writing, not that that was very promising anyway.
I have stopped eating regulary; half of the time it comes out immediately anyway.
Right now when I eat I get a huge stomach ache, it's not my fault. My body refuses to act normal, apparently.
I have stopped sleepig regulary; staying up half of the night afraid to fall back asleep is common for me.
I have stopped dreaming; it will lead to expectations. expectations lead to dissapointments and they hurt.

I will not expect him anymore, for he only wants to be found.
And how can he, on his turn, expect me to search while he blindfolded me with a thick mist of confusion?
and then his eyes. his eyes his eyes his eyes.
they look at me. "Do you think it's because I like to look at you and think about eating you up- about how you would taste?"

I am not going insane, I hope, or getting paranoia that he has cannibalistic tendensies.
Paranoia is a fear and I would not mind being boiled and buttered up to be served on a silver platter as part or garnier at a fancy diner.
So it's not being afraid...

But I can't believe when someone looks at me with such kindness, so gentle, that they can't purely have good intentions. So if not purely anger, disgrace, disgust, then perhaps purely desire for the flesh. We're talking about me, remember?
It's the only thing I can imagine. What else could those eyes mean?