His house is sunshine, a bright glow. The wind can only brush against the windows, slip away into daylight. He warms his hands against its walls and that heat keeps his palms soft. He touches you and you feel it beneath your skin.  

Beside his house, there’s a street. Each day cars flood its lanes. Their sound seeps in through cracks and it dims the house slightly. So, he becomes a moon, but doesn’t know the reason he illuminates. He orbits from room to room. 

Caused by his gravitational pull, the cars become muffled, a soft gauze of sound, buried, burnt, an unconscious melody of hidden explosions and the rubbing pulse of dark rubber upon packed oil glaze. There’s the slight hum of electric vehicles which strangely is a pedal point. Drone of the world. 

Little creatures smile at him, purr if they can. He pets them with hot fingers. But they think he is threadlike, a filament, a passage of current. Slowly, he becomes afraid of moths. 

He appears in any room, even rooms the moths never see. They are frantic, as frightened as he. He applies duct tape around the frames of the window screens. They eventually find their way in, erratic, asking questions with a frenzied calmness, is such a thing exists. 

When they die, they become powdered dust with wings covered in scales which diffract light. Still, they want lucid explanations about luminosity. His hands clasp, fingers interlace, leaving only the chaos of silence. 

Now, the cars can’t be heard, and they attempt to parallel park in awkward positions, their horns mute but they have sign language that comes in the form of lights, voices of the night. The moths are confused, flutter about, discharging dust, as they bump into what they think is an explanation.