The moth is a nomad with a guilty pleasure: light. God’s surveillance style is also light, so you could say the two are friends. A moth, however, doesn’t fly toward the sun. It is too bright and far away. Instead it flies toward a flame with its morph equipment ready and tiny manifesto in hand, flickering on and off, its poignant synergy with the darkness now complete. It could have gone other ways: violent sap, sticky web, deep winter, etc. God makes a tally and eyes the headset of her Oculus Rift waiting on the table nearby.