A novel snippet
It was warm, perfect for nudding down, the air like warm satin sliding all over me. The last blue of evening was close around us shielding us from eyes, and yet the stars were there, winking and festive also and who could mind them?—and the moths, soft and silver. The stars lit them, I guess, and the last light from the sky, and the slight light from Shakestick’s lamps as he hurried the last of the haystackers, other end of the field. Anyway, they were low like a mist, the moths, like a dancing mist, large and small like snow wafting on a breeze, as if the very air were too alive not to burst into these creatures, to take wing and flutter in all these different directions.It's turning into a monster, I tell you. Word says it is 94,300 words, and I'm not done yet.
Everything was making sense, this girl and me wrapping each other, and what had gone before. A great Aha! had happened to me and I saw, now, why the whole world was paired up man to woman like it was, buck to doe, bull to cow, cock to hen: for both their releases, to keep them present on the earth, instead of away suffering inside their own bodies and heads. Moth to moth, too, eh? Moth to moth, look at them, floating and flirting, giving off their moth-signals, curling their feather antlers at each other’s nearness.