The butterflies know. And so does the person they are, and so does the person they aren't. A pang of delight and sympathy echoes down the corridors of the Never-There, and a purple-winged beauty settles on his shoulder, resonating with the urge to lie awake at night, dreading the future and faulting yourself for every little mistake you've ever made.

We can feel you twist. Your 'you' still smells slick with blood. How long has it been, since you were drawn and pulled into this shape, mind-flesh made ductile and drawn into the ever-coiling? Tell us! Tell us! Scream, scream, scream!

Its wings seem to unfurl on some level of reality as it 'talks,' to become glittering motes of iridescent scales, shivering and shimmering on the static hum of the Gone Sideways, the Half an Inch to the Left, the Never One Thing.