A small brown moth, mottled and muted,
sat in the crevice of an escalator step.
I almost didn't see him. I wish I hadn't;
I was deeply saddened by his imminent death.
Fragile little leaf against cold steel,
heading for doom.
I know how you feel.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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