All insects are hollow. They are composed of ash, children’s spit, and carefully knotted horsehair.
They have a special relationship to pain. Sometimes it is shallow, and other times the pain is deeper, but at all times they are in pain.
Some people collect them. They fill their shelves and drawers and display cases and pockets with them. Whether this is a notion of sympathy or a kind of penitence, we do not know.
In some countries they are used as currency. From hand to palm. Because of their intrinsic value. A young girl will tie a beetle around her necks and wear it like a fat black and green jewel—nestled in the hollow of her throat, that depression between the bone. The part of the neck that flutters when she speaks.
No insect is ever quiet. They whisper very softly, their whisper a kind of humming. Sometimes so softly that we must take them between two of our fingers to feel their voices.