some would say they dislike the fluttering of wings, evenings in the sand-laden motel room, slop of busted tv static, a clattering of night winds, scraping their tongues over pumice, over knuckles of heated desert. some would say they dislike the flickering of neon, the flat sand path of moon over skin, or perhaps its the stink of carpet, smoke, cheap wood veneer. the discomfort of dirty sinks, unshaved shadows making their way across the highways. dim.
some say moths bring good dreams, if left to steam in the lamp light.
