the crane fly suffers from an identity crisis. it is a harmless, delicate, and gawkily beautiful insect that has the terrible misfortune of resembling a giant mosquito. i cringe at the thought of the number of crane flies that have been smashed against cabin windows, had their wings torn off, succumbed to gusts of black flag aerosol poison, or been zapped by insect lights, to the misguided glee of those gathered nearby. i don’t know how this gentleman died, but i found him on my floor, and thought him handsome in death, especially the bold veins of his wings. may he rest in peace.
dead crane fly