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All day long they do nothing. They hang out in dark corners if they can, and if they can't, they keep out of the sun and warmth.
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Moths are to butterflies what tugboats are to yachts. I've always loved tugboats. They have so much more depth of personality than yachts, working usefully without bragging about it; and if we could hear moths, I like to think their voices would be as deep and stirring as a tugboat's.
Moths live lives of great intrigue and touching vulnerability. They are elusive as many a rationale, in their element.
Many Australian moths are furrier than all but the warmest-garbed animals. And I do love fur. Their markings and feathered antennae are often more beautiful in a quiet way, than butterflies. Moths possess a Jane Eyre elegance, which seems appropriate as they sometimes look clothed in Victorian cashmere.
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Last night a little sugar glider jumped and ate several moths, each one as big to the glider as a turkey, to you.
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