Spent three hours drawing a perfect, delicate moth. Wings like stained glass, every vein precise. Then I dropped my last piece of bread in a puddle of condensation on the floor. Stared at the moth, then the soggy bread. The moth was beautiful. The bread was my dinner. I ate the bread. The damp is making the paper curl. The moth is ruined. It’s fine. It was just a bug on paper. Everything here gets ruined eventually. Even the things you make carefully, with clean hands.
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