he's lost in shadows; we can't see him. he doesn't respond.
low on the corpse's back, over the shoulders, two neat, triangular patches of skin are missing.
a floodlamp is descending, attached to a small basket.
the wide, furry, brown back of the moth. and there, right between the wing bases - wonderful and terrible to see - is nature's perfect reproduction of a ghostly human skull.
the building looks like an armed fort. cops with shotguns guard the front door, both ends of the hall, the foot of the stairs, the single elevator. more of them are coming and going.