He stood in the middle of the dark parking lot, his coat fluttering faintly in the breeze. The clouds were pulling away from the moon and the uneven asphalt was dotted with puddles. He wore circular shades and as I approached he nodded with a tight, cold smile. The wind picked up and the hem of his coat started to disintegrate into the air before reforming. I could see that it was made of thousands of moths clinging together, their wings shuddering and flipping open and shut. He held out his fists and uncurled them one at a time. In the first was the stub of a candle, and in the other was a single match. His coat grew restless, moths flying off and returning with greater frequency. I went to strike the match but he held up his hand. "Not yet," he said. "You want me to freeze to death?" He turned and walked off, splashing through the reflections of the moon which one by one shattered then reformed behind him.