My bedroom is bathed in timid pale moonlight. I lie in its silence and watch a star beyond my window, solitary and bright. I cannot tell if it is rising, or be sure it’s not a planet or clumsy manmade satellite. I stare at it, consider it, try and work out what it is, denying myself unearned sleep and rooted uselessly to this ever-spinning rock. I can do nothing but lie and watch it and the man-made birds able to soar so easily between myself and that light.

He’s a butterfly, wrapped up in his silky nest of not yet spread patterns and unbeaten wings.

His colour has changed again, though it’s starting to fade in the darkness. He caught the true scent of life in the care he didn’t expect his environment to yield, and the gentle footsteps of strangers as they pass by. He’s wondering if he can have it all - live peacefully amongst the humans whilst revelling in the colours of his quite non-human nature. He doesn’t perch upon the flowers but wants to. He wants to create but still lacks the most basic instruments. He cradles ideas on how to stay in the cocoon and instead become a god, but doesn’t feel he has the right. He must do as his nature dictates.

He’s a butterfly, not yet unfolded, trapped beneath the pitifully thin skin of his own claustrophobic prison - soaking up the world outside, growing evermore towards taking flight, towards beauty and perfection, waiting until he’s ready to break through and rediscover the sun.