The firefly which had inspired Barry in his last ragged breaths of depressant fueled death flew in lazy random arcs through the gradually darkening sky. It carried itself with fluttering wings and flashing torso over grassy summer fields to slalom between the thick trees of the forest. It flashed and flew and rejoiced, in as much as insects can, in the favorable weather of the season.

As it darted about the warm summer air, it saw something else flashing in the encroaching darkness. The glow, while not quite the same as its own, had some appeal that could not be explained. The firefly buzzed in cautious passes towards the shining light. The light came and the light went. Without its glow, the firefly circled in confusion.

There it was. Big and bold and bluegreen for all to see. It had to be some sort of exotic firefly from beyond the field. He had to go breed with it.

As he approached it, something snatched him up. It ripped him in half and smeared his glowing essence onto itself out of vanity alone.