Short.

Absentmindedly brushing my hair near the window, an imperceptible flutter near the dusty sill.

A tiny dragonfly.

Tangled in silvery strands of spider web.

Released from its exquisite deathbed I held it in my palm like a fragile piece of blown glass.

It looked at me with what I imagine must be throes of agony, multiplied manifold in its compound eyes.

Or perhaps the quiet slipping away of a wisp of a dragonfly soul.

What was the point, I ask, of all that minuscule beauty? Those airy wondrous wings? That myriad melee of colour and splendor and perfection?

An ignominious, ordinary death in the palm of an IT employee.

What a shame.

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