Mothman

Vacancies.
The tiled stairways seemed to survey their cooped delirium again, as he shuffled up its tunneling damp. This apartment. A strange impossibility made real by the uneven paved cement under his feet, and the smell of urine. It was surreal, to think that all this, these alleys, these shuddering lifts, existed, alongside that sheltered contruct through which he had strung great hopes, or seizured illusions, carried as it were, by the luck of circumstance in a great enabling machine that had now ceased to run, to pour its great lubricant syrup over the cog of days. Of course, he could trace the boundaries of the protective circles of his mind, like so many impenetrably arbitrary things. But a moth flew from the ceiling, and latched to the doorway. Who lives there? Perhaps some waitress, remembering salvation through strange forgettable bedfellows, like modern day priests? Perhaps some avuncular man, that hangs, and in age, reminds one of jolly life juxtaposed with a death-truth that sweeps one over deserting present, a kind of embalmed archetype, condemned to sincerity? The mothman stared, for it shouldered his wrists. Its eyes looked; wingtips brushing the tips of his armhairs. He kissed it, and it latched to his face, fluttering, trembling, shuddering across his face.