Joachim Fest, Horst Janssen. Selbstbildnis von fremder Hand.
Your eye catches the wasp at the windowpane. It slowly crawls around in useless circles. Last wasp of summer it will die with the first autumn frost.
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane.
Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire, Canto I
No great difference between our lives and hers: working all life's summer, then die in winter.
No reason to put mankind in the limelight, if you ask me.