The night lamps and the low fat moon bring out the cockroaches; each one as large as my thumb, with wingshells of malachite green. They are not good at flying, blundering across the living space, their wings whirring. They crawl up the walls and hang there like jewels. Farin collects the dead ones so she can sew their shells onto her shirt, she says. She keeps them in a sweetwood box, with her hair pins and silk ribbons.
Fidgeting about with already written stuff is not the same thing as actually writing a new scene. Now go do some work.