Turn the moon off.
Rosharch butterflies came in through the window, stars straying briefly from their wingtips. The curtains twitch in their sleep as the moon blows softly in through the window.
A flowered face, tendrils crawling over it’s eyebrows, stares down. It watches the lilies skating over the carpet. Foot-long butterflies skim thier voilet flowers, sending circular ripples beyond where the walls were.
Where the boards were stand roots, iron-brown trunks drip azure tears into the sheltering sky, and the moon blows softly in.
