the massacrist of moths
Everyday I wake up to a massacre. My morning sleepyheaded-ness coincides with killing en masse. Grains of coarsely ground coffee in hot water yield to gravity in the french press while I eye my prey. It's like an artsy music video. Each day, sometimes before going to bed too, I kill soft bodies. With a valid excuse as foolproof as an EU passport, I meticulously wipe away the larvae on the ceiling. At any given moment of inspection there are at least ten, eleven of them. By the upper corners, near the blinds, over the sofa we had no place for, nor could throw away that blocks the entrance of the kitchen… This killing is legitimate, I repeat like mantra. The wiggly worms are delicate. Frankly I put my life on the line by getting on the wobbly chair and swiping a wet paper towel gently over one so as not to smear the contents of the tiny immature body on the whitewashed ceiling. When they are captured intact, I take pride in my insectarian efforts. I am an empathetic human. They ca...