Red-necked Footman Atolmis rubricollis.
Popped downstairs to make a cup of tea. Heard a teeny-tiny tapping, a teeny-tiny tapping of a Red-necked Footman's foot at the kitchen door. On opening said door, he begged, in a teeny-tiny voice, begged to be photographed, begged to have his teeny-tiny likeness recorded for posterity.
"Why?" I asked, "Why do you want your teeny-tiny likeness recorded for posterity?"
He recovered himself a little, stroked an antenna and, in that enigmatic manner for which footmen are famed, quoted Boltanski by way of reply:
"We are all so complicated and then we die. We are a subject one day, with our vanities, our loves, our worries, and then one day, abruptly, we become nothing but an object, an absolutely disgusting pile of shit. We pass very quickly from one stage to the next, it's very bizarre. It will happen to all of us, and fairly soon too."
"But what if,..." I proffered, paraphrasing the aforementioned Frenchman so as not to appear the less well-read in this exchange between man and moth, "... what if I take your photograph, and then you die, and then, at some point in the dim and distant future, no one on earth recognizes you in the photograph? You will have died twice."
"I'll take the risk, you take the photo,..." quipped the invertebrate, "... and make sure you get my good side."