my name’s gary and the walls in my house is light brown. on one of them about two thirds of the way up, there’s a square of white. actually it’s a rectangle. anyway, the other night, a big brown dusty velvety lovely moth landed in the corner of the white square. it looked like the sort of moth that could eat curtains, like really thick ones. or the sort of moth that eats corduroy. anyway, this moth stuck itself to the wall in this white square, and lightly beat its wings. for the moth, air was such a thick substance. it never flapped its wings hard enough to take off - just enough to shake off some of its iridescent angel dust. the sort of stuff that isn’t ever meant to be touched by a human being’s oily finger. now i wouldn’t dare touch a (living) moth without permission. i know about the dust. and that’s enough to convince me that moth’s wings are to be enjoyed from a distance. so there i am, sitting on the couch, watching intently this thing on my wall, so gentle and still, and so mystifying. I’m not sure whether it is hard or soft. i’m not sure if it’s wet or dry. I’m not sure if it’s like me, or if we’re completely different. these musings about the moth resonate through my mind and throughout the house like a tour group lead by the night breeze. i notice the moth rustle slightly as a tiny current comes alongside it, and there's a dialogue between the two, the air coming and going and the moth opening and closing itself to the world. after some transaction, or translation, or persuasion, or realisation, the air slides away and the moth starts rubbing its wings together much more forcefully, or as forcefully as is possible for little wings. and the fruits of this friction suddenly begin to flow from between the wings, illuminating the room ever so faintly and intoxicating my eyes. a waterfall of iridescent particles smaller than you could dream of, flowing from the upper corner of the white square on my light brown walls, a seemingly cosmic distance to the skirting board sitting the corner of the wall and the floor. a flow of the most minuscule mauves, emeralds, indigos, ultramarines; the most regal purples, golds, burgundies and blues, and the most vital vermilions and sunshine yellows. as if every grain of every angel ground up and brought together was pouring through heaven’s own hourglass, steadily falling to the skirting board and overflowing onto the cork floor in my living room. like the sands of whitehaven beach had been enchanted to breathe themselves through time and into my old house. i sat watching this collection of specks grow into a sizeable pile across from my couch, completely mesmerised and overcome by the colours, radiant, effervescent, spellbinding, resplendent. like the stars were falling from the sky one by one through a celestial funnel called a moth, to land as a trillion little gifts at my feet. as this though rose and faded from my mind, the flow of angel dust went from a little cascade, to the smallest stream, to a tiny trickle, to an infinitesimal inching of each imperfect gemstone from one instant in time and space to the next. and after forever had given up on being the measure for this microscopic pilgrimage, the flow of dust finally settled, leaving little mound of ground up angels, rainbows, fairies, and birthstones sitting perfectly before me. at this moment, i did what only a human being would do, what only a human being could even imagine could be done: i went to the little pile, which stood less than a handspan tall and about a handprint wide, and lay down on my stomach before it, so that i put my chin on the floor at the foot of it, and the peak of it rose to just about mu eye level. i took a long, slow, terribly gentle deep breath in, and when i felt at the point of bursting, i opened my mouth and blew
TLDR:
my name is Gareth and i dropped a bag of cornflour on the ground and then turned around and accidentally stepped on it and it went everywhere.