A butterfly, small and colourful, flitted in the bedroom window. Its wings pulsed for a few seconds, then rested, then pulsed, then rested, making it rise and fall a few inches at a time while constantly moving forward. It finally landed on the dresser.
The butterfly’s wings kept moving, more gently now, up and down, up and down. It seemed to be watching the bed’s lone occupant, a man of about twenty, wearing only the bottom half of a matching pajama set. He was not sleeping. He stared up at the ceiling, his face slack, devoid of all hope and desire.
The butterfly took to the air again. It crossed the distance to the bed, flying the length of the man to land again on the tip of his nose.
The man looked up at the butterfly, his nose breathing slowly. The butterfly looked back at the man, it’s wings moving slowly. They stayed like this for some minutes, before the butterfly took flight again, leaving through the window it had entered.
The man sighed, then rose, steeling himself for the day.