He realised that if what he was looking for was what was too obvious and too familiar to notice then far from having to rely on times when he felt inspired, when his language was straining at its leads, he needed to awaken in the dullest, least aroused times. Could there be such an intention? he wondered, or was it inevitable that the grey moth would stay hidden in the heart of all this apparent flatness. Something more subtle than intention was required, because the impulse to awaken could not be imported, it must already be present, the almost invisible trembling of the moth's folded wings.