Night after night when Pip curled up on his branch to sleep, he began to hear a strange sound which he had never heard before… It sounded like a buzzing. At first he thought it was the buzzing of the flies who feasted on the rotting berries of the trees, but no, this was different. It was more of a  humming sound, it was deeper and somehow warmer. He began to think he could hear tiny voices in the humming, which began to enter his dreams…

“We will get etched into folklore over our death.”

A moth talking to oneself while hundreds of moths sound like rain hitting the bulb

(it’s not a conversation but everyone’s listening)

 “People have started noticing us a lot lately. Until yesterday we were insignificant and sometimes feared. Some said we were made of sawdust and some said we were made of paper pulp ”

“We have been flying for too long, our journey cut short, our memories fade faster. Just like us, there is a myth flying around these days. They say we will finally be able to get our memories and the forgotten back and stop being directionless. There’s a legend that the chimneys have grown cold and this siren song of the stars around every corner will disappear too.”