in swarms his moths kept clouding his sight, adoring. swatting left and right he wove a way blindly relying on guidance from onlookers' curses before and beside and behind as the jostling marked out ahead the cursed path he would walk for all time. a smother of moths surrounded his head, forever bedevilled, in endless night
from occult spaces they came in their millions each taking its place to bask in his brilliance, shimmershivering verminal and packed lovingly, virginal, leaving unfilled not a single square millimetre, a gilted cage of his cult winding him up and driving him silly. occlusive the temple they'd lovingly built, behind it nothing but
endless night
his faithful moths could hardly believe it, finding his head about which to weave. his halo of light, though blindingly bright, was cold as a corpse and easily reached. slowly and certainly sending him mad, their flitting and fluttering driving him nutty, they gradually taught him to be glad in the womb of his mothbuilt endless night