It smelled like summer for the first time. March had smelled like autumn or winter, some of April even smelled like spring. But that day smelled like grass and bugs and the oil of life. Before the rain hit I went for a walk.
While walking I chanced by a moth. Wounded. He was in the street near the edge, and crawling for his life to the gravel shoulder. I crouched, squinted at him, then went on.
Along my return I spotted the fellow again. He had made it to the shoulder! And no ants had eaten him, yet. Seeing his little victory I was full of glee and I laughed. I walked on.
Then I knew: when you are in the Amazon, you will be the moth, Rogue Priest. All the world will be indifferent to you. And if you fall in a valiant struggle, you too will be laughed at.
And the indifferent creatures will continue their own unvaliant struggle,
And the indifferent will continue their struggle.
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