The stink bug believes. It must believe. A bulb is the sun, the ceiling its sky. Over and over again, it collides against a hard white that in the "wild" gives way. A bug doesn't learn. It persists, both in success and failure.
It can't stop. It won't stop until it falls damaged or exhausted. Then I'll cup it, and put it outside, back where the ceiling knows forgiveness. You see, I have a little bug in me.