“You’re dwelling,” the moth started to play with my eyelashes, twirling its light body in sporadic spins. I groaned, “Not you again,” I swiped at the air and asked, “Dwelling?” “You sure are, are dwelling,” he did a big spin around my head, avoiding the smoke from a nearby cigarette. You could hear a ding each time he went through one of the thin smoke rings. “Where am I dwelling? That word’s starting to sound funny now. Dwell, dwelling, dwell.” “You’re dwelling in the past,” the moth landed on the shelf where my feet were resting and I tried to kick him away, but he wouldn’t be scared off. In a moment of weakness, I spied on the swallow. “Oh, now you’re just being…