The dry flapping sound of tiny wings signaled the arrival of the moths. They circled in the air, waiting for the spell of the past to take hold before alighting on their many disciples. Those countless supine figures, the participants of the most sacred rite, remained utterly still while their clothes were chewed away. Overhead, the moon hovered like a vast glowing lamp.
In imitation of a bird of prey, a ritual mask—the anti-light—descended from on high. It persisted through countless waves of duration and layers of stuttering clouds, growing more powerful as it approached. In its wake followed the all-encompassing blindness of an oil spill.
