I had a dream last night, wondrously strange: I was a butterfly!  My wings were large, dynamic and beautiful.

Vibrancy shone off of me, red that more than red, puce beyond puce, azure more pronounced than the sea in the morning.  I was a fluttering orb of splendor dancing from flower to flower, a majestic beacon of purity and bliss to all other living things.

The flowers bent to me; the birds sang to me; the sun tried to shine just slightly stronger so that its beams might touch my wings and create a prism of splendid color spectrum.

I didn’t know of Jesse Marks, his body, his mind, the tensions between them: for I was a butterfly, and so long as I’d been perceiving this it’d seemed real to me, and more importantly, it seemed eternal: time began and terminated within each breath I took.

Then I awoke.

I was solidly and unmistakably “myself”.  What a lovely dream, I thought to myself.  But, if I can be honest, I don’t truly know if I was Jesse Marks dreaming about butterflies, or if I’m actually a butterfly who is dreaming about Jesse Marks; or further still, perhaps I’m  somewhere in between…