Моль: существо, которое ест то, что не ест больше никто на Земле

You open the closet, reach for your favorite warm sweater, unfold it—and your heart sinks. Holes have crept through the wool. Small, uneven, eaten away. And above the shelf, a nondescript gray butterfly flutters lazily, which you immediately try to swat. A familiar annoyance. A minor everyday problem. A creature we swat without looking, without even thinking about. Just a moth. What could be interesting about this?