The white, maroon, and golden brown of Taliesin West pillows beneath the being that has shared its space with it since '37. It was always here, and it will always stay. Although fruitful, it grows tired of growth. Its vision too obscured for the desert flower in the dark. The body aches, decays even. But that's just how it feels sometimes until it doesn't. Writhing, gyrating, despairing, ultimately,

it's about moths.