Or, the nocturnal insects lured by a fluorescent light, beat their wings against the windowpane. An ancient instinct guides these moths, crane flies, mayflies, and beetles. Entranced, intoxicated, they struggle for release to make their last precious rounds under the moon’s spectral light. They swarm desperately, gyrating as if in existential agony until they are set free by the flick of a switch into the dark, shimmering void of the night.
The pigeon, wandering aimlessly on the wet pavement of the street, makes its meandering imprints. Circling, bobbing its head, it is oblivious to the world around it, seemingly content to leave its ever-lasting mark. What can account for this pointless behavior? Is it confused, or mocking our rational systems of belief? “No,” the pigeon coos, “I am searching for the answer to the question which has no answer.”