Our nightlight is covered by winged dead bugs and tiny moths who are committing suicide before the coming of the dark, sunless winter. I heard them repeat Othello's lines before flapping their wings for the last time:
O my soul's joy, if it were now to die, it were now to be most happy; for I fear my soul hath her content so absolute that not a moment like to this succeeds in unknown time.
(quoted from memory -- please forgive errors in the gospel)
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