[ WP ] A story with no point . Just the ramblings of someone committed to a mental institution .

There are all sorts of moths. Samia cynthia. Luna. Attacus atlas. Leopard. So many. And how free they are, borne away on wings of all shapes, colors, and patterns. Each has its own distinct pattern, an identity like a fingerprint. 
 
 Fingers. So many lines in fingers. Rough, smooth, old, young. They shape and mold life as best they can. Clumsy artist's hands working with defective clay. Art. Each individual his own artist. Both dull and vibrant colors mix in the soul's palette. With thoughts and feelings. 
 
 A kaleidoscope of feelings. Sad. Happy. Anger. Regret. Blue. Yellow. Red. Grey. Circle. Diamond. Square. Rectangle. In and out, inside the mind's eye. 
 
 The mind. A dark and lonely well. Dropped to the bottom of icy waters. Lost. Adrift. Black. Lonely. Screaming for help. Unheard. Echoes back to me. Trapped. Fading. Lost.
