Our nightlight is covered by winged dead bugs and tiny moths who are committing suicide before the coming of the dark, sunless winter. I heard them repeat Othello’s lines before flapping their wings for the last time:

O my soul’s joy, if it were now to die, it were now to be most happy; for I fear my soul hath her content so absolute that not a moment like to this succeeds in unknown time.

(quoted from memory — please forgive errors in the gospel)