I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness―in a landscape selected at random―is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern―to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humouring a lucky mortal.
– Vladimir Nabokov
The specific relevant content for this request, if necessary, delimited with characters: As I sip on a large Americano, my brain working double-time to ignore the melodies coming from the speakers mounted on the ceiling of the small café, a butterfly lands on the rim of the mug. Its wings, initially kept upward, gently unfold to reveal their unnatural pattern. I can feel a violent thumping in my chest, its nervous rhythms reaching the eardrums. I struggle to inhale correctly, fighting back diaphragm spasms alternating with dry heaves. The creature’s display reaches deeper still, rusted mental rakes scraping against the soft brain tissue in an inhuman search for the very things that bring me down and cause me agonizing anxiety. I stand up in a vain attempt to regain control, but my left leg is quivering uncontrollably. The butterfly remains unfazed by my alien convulsions and continues to gently flap its fleshy wings. “What’s the matter? You’re not jealous, are you?”. The lust-laden words injected into my consciousness, a neurotoxin meant just for me. Its purpose – to undo what’s left of the frayed scraps of my inner peace. I shake my head, eyes shut, wishing they’d remain so like the steel shutters of a store long abandoned.
“Sir? Sir, are you alright?” A thick Eastern European accent, reaching out to me from an immeasurable distance. “Is everything okay?” Bleary-eyed, I do my utmost to look back in the direction of the person speaking. A woman’s slender face, a pleasant blur of pale-white, hickory and birthmarks, bright eyes awash with the look of concern and confusion entangled. I think she’s beautiful, but it hurts too much. “Yes, sorry…” my reply, as insincere as a cloud swollen with rain on a hot summer’s day. The apparition is gone. With it, so are the contents of my mug, save for coffee residue, visible through the pellucid teaspoon of liquid left on the bottom. Its stillness is so very unappetizing.
“I’m sorry. The bill, please….” I utter again, making great efforts to smile with my eyes. Doubt, followed by professional coolness, swiped across my lovely coffee mistress’s face but for a moment too brief to capture on a canvas. As I make my way out, a flutter of insect wings reverberates somewhere in my mind.
tsvetoslav shalev 
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