“Sure, I mean. There’s nothing obscene or rude…” he said quietly, “It’s just mostly words and a few drawings when I can remember them…”
She looks down at it, reading beautiful words and seeing his talent for drawing on the pages. How she always envied his drawing and painting skills. “It’s like poetry,” she whispers, reading a certain beautiful passage.
The butterfly obtains
But little sympathy
Though favorably mentioned
In Entomology —Because he travels freely
And wears a proper coat
The circumspect are certain
That he is dissolute —Had he the homely scutcheon
Of modest Industry
‘Twere fitter certifying
For Immortality
Jack sits there besides her, watching as she looks over his jumbled half awake words, and the sketches which start small, but are then redrawn, bigger on the page. And as he said, there were butterflies on practically every single page.
“I think I dream about them,” he said after a moment, “because I’ve wanted to become better for so long.”
Jack Maple 