Drawings of black butterflies fill the page, up and down, in the corners. In the middle a picture of you, moving the eyes in the darkness, full of expectations and desires. This is the memory that persists. The monster who can not sleep, reminds me we are like children playing in a dead house, with broken bones and emancipated feelings. Fred told me once I am a child who can not see you coming. But that you keep on swimming, you keep on screaming to reach out for me. I don't know if I can trust Fred. Who can trust in me either way?