At the time I was simple child, maybe six or so years old, all I wanted to do that day was climb in the outdoor mcdonald's playground in peace, but fate had another plan in mind. I had walked into a small box with an airplane propeller on the front and was having a jolly time when I heard an odd noise from the opening, the sound was a bit like a vibrating phone, but more crunchy, and accompanied by a soft hissing sound. I looked out to see a goliath moth desperatly fluttering, trying to free itself from the hell hole it had accidentaly trapped itself in. The moth was as large as my head, I could see every nightmarish feature of it's twisted body. It must've seen the window behind me, for it flew closer, slamming into walls and rattling about. My deafening scream didn't hinder it's advancement, but it did alert my parents, one of whom gallantly climbed the tiny flight of stairs and yanked me out of hams way. To this day the sight of a moth installs terror into my frail heart, and that horrible sound will haunt my darkest dreams until the day I die.