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Summary
He doesn’t dream, at the start. It’s a rarity, usually his mind would take him to places so vivid he'd spend entire mornings trying to figure out their meaning or trying to craft them an ending.
Slowly, a small butterfly reaches his field of vision. It’s light-blue, sparkles daintily trailing away from its tail. He recognizes it. -
Bookmark Notes:
Eldritch poetry??? In the sense that pinning water to a corkboard feels less slippery than reading this, which is probably the point.