the mosquito – the fool – did not realize the paint was not truly skin. it landed on the luminous breast of the maiden, all aglow in the perfect spotlight. the mosquito – the fool – dug the needle into the craquelure veins, sucked the blood.

it wasn’t blood. it was old canvas and dried oil paintings.

the mosquito – the fool – flew away believing in the painter’s masterful strokes. she found her mate, and laid her eggs with the blood food from the painting in a small patch of water in the old, leaky roof.

for years, afterwards, these moths were everywhere. they had mosquito-like bodies – small and dainty and jagged angles – but they had the dusty puff and gorgeous wings of moths.

guests go home, and find moths hiding in their clothes.

hiding in their hair.

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