Somnium adamo.

I was at a party.

The party seemed to be some sort of MTV-style event calle Butterfly, Butterfly. Complete with a garish, pink, 70s-esque logo across everything. All that was missing was an effervescent Ryan Seacrest.

The part was being held in some sort of large, well-lit room, somewhere in the tropics. The big side doors were open, presumably to let the breeze blow through. Wood panelling. I seemed to be the only Black guy. The rest were Beach House blonde airheads and ripped, oddly shirtless boys with spiked or feathered hair.

The catchphrase was "butterfly, butterfly".

It was being used in much the same way some blacks use motherf_er. Someone getting down yells "Butterfly butterfly-ee!" and later, after the cop comes, a fluttering horizontal motion is made under the chin while glancing at the stereo, whispering "Butterfly, butterfly."

I left when the cop showed up, though the actual leaving escapes me.

I walk along a second-story veranda, house on my right, cool night on my left. The party is presumably behind me. Presumably: I don't look back.

Through a window on my right is a family at a dinner table, backlit by a lone lamp. The table is rectangular, parallel to the window. Stiff. The father is on the left. Glasses; thinning hair gone to white; bald spot; careworn lines in his face. His wife, a fading brunette, has her hair up. The two children, on the wide part of the table, seem to be living, breathing replicas of Dick and Jane. The boy has his back to me. His pigtailed sister is staring at him, he at her. They don't notice me, a dark presence looming over their window, dark against the sky darkening to midnight.

I walk on.

There is a room at the end. No staircase. The room is darkly painted, with a single lamp behind the group of people playing Scrabble, or some other board game, on the coffee table. Wicker sofas and chairs, thinly cushioned. A blonde stand up from the chair farthest from me, stretches, smiles. I, clumsily—as usual—, ask for a ride. She says something about giving a ride to another guy. She takes my hand.

Takes my hand.

We walk along some sort of, um, walkway. Concrete pillars on the left, shade above, some sort of monolithic grey structure on the right. I don't know what's beyond the pillars, besides blinding light. She's on the outside. Our fingers seem to grow arond each other, curling of their own accord. There is a ramp leading forward and down, turning right, forward and down. Into darkness. Oblivion. She tells me to cut through the building, meet her at 15. Through? Sure enough, there's a glass door on my right.

I don't remember letting go. I should rememmber letting go.

I cut through the building—an airport, it seems—and ask someone where 15 is. He mentions the last line of an old gospel song. I exit the building.

The building the man mentioned is right in front of me. It is on a huge green lawn, transversed by gravel paths, not unlike a college campus. I cross to the building, walk on to the parking lot on the other side, look for her car.

She's not there.

And I don't know what her car looks like.

After a while-I don't know how long-I turn around and find that the campus is gone, that the parking lot fronts directly onto the grey building. I go back in.

The building seems to have gotten much larger. Some soft, golden-lit dinner is being held ther. An old man is telling his grandson how he met his grandmother at that very table, 20 years ago. I go back outside.

This is roughly where I feel compelled to wake up. In fact, I am already a third awake. I fight to stay in the dream, desperately searching the suddenly-empty lot for the girl, who I may be in love with. I think I catch a glimpse of her, in the distance, but that's all I remember before I wake up.


The glimpse I caught of the girl actually seemed to be the Bride from Kill Bill, dressed the way she was when she went to kill Vernita Green. The typography used for the 'Butterfly, Butterfly' logo is identical to that used for the Pussy Wagon. I've alaways been partial to blondes. The ramp the girl was descending represented a descent into oblivion, into Conrad's fabled Heart of Darkness. THe fact that it was a ramp, not stairs, indicates that the descent would be all that easier. ALmost all the cars in the parking lot were silver.

I need someone to help me figure out what it means.


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