The last time I took acid was on a camping trip in Tennessee

Moths flew in from all corners of the woods to burn up in our camp fire. Watching these little drunken kamikaze planes turned out to be the height of hillarity and drama for my friends and I that night.

We watched them come in on their squiggly flight patterns, their wings curling up like tissue paper once they hit the wall of intense heat surrounding the fire. They went down in tail-spins and nose-dives, some engulfed in flames, others only partially so, their bodies leaving a trail of smoke as they lost power and fell.

But who could blame them for acting drunk? They'd spent lifetimes getting teased by the moon every night. Maybe one or two of them had even fallen under the spell of a light bulb and has been going around dissallusioned ever since?

The apparent orgy of insect suicide took on a different dynamic when one of us observed that certain moths seemed to have a method. On a log, set about two feet to the side of the fire, moths were landing. If you really focused in, you could see them struggling to hold their place on the log against the billowing heat while they counted to three. For these guys, the point was not just to burn up in the heat but to penetrate it and reach the heart of the fire.