All night long, they bounce their segmented little eyes against whatever artificial light source offers itself. Can we assume that they try this all day? I don't expect that they sleep.
I just image a moth, frustrated at his failed efforts each night, being surprised from the east at 6 a.m., by an altogether much more attractive source of light. "O, glorious life!", it would say, and begin making for it. All day long it would fly, higher and higher.
Of course, it would never work. The sun is 93 million miles above, and getting slightly further each millennium. And so, our moth would watch its hopes fade with the evening, sigh. But wait! What are all these little pinpricks of light beneath? Streetlights and bug zappers call out. Citronella bug-o-buckets beckon with their contradictory sirens' songs. Drift down gently, your short memory knows none of the disappointment of fourteen hours past.
Or maybe they just become confused with the stars and end up in space.
Or maybe they just sleep. |