The moth under the book had been dead for two days. After I buried it in the garbage, its shadow stayed on the kitchen through several washings. It was Icarus, flying to close to a Japanese woman with a book, and phobia of all things that flutter. The death was not mourned by her, and was insured through repeated steps on the book.
It was a big moth. Strong and fearless. But no moth can live under a book and the weight of a frightened woman. I took it as a lesson, and hope you do as well. Let us not wander where have no business, else our bodies be dried to the linoleum under the weight of our own hubris.