It shivers in my memory, tantalizingly out of reach, beyond conscious form of recognition.  It wriggles, a stubborn fish gasping for its normative medium, fiercely treading to survive where it is so out of place.  'The stars shine on the darkest nights.'

I can almost grasp the voice in my mind.  'You now hold the butterfly.  Will you crush it?'

The delicate fibers weave their way in and out of space; creating Time, un-creating it.  The whispers slip like beaded water along the threads as they leap and pull out of reach again.  Never quite silence, never only sound.

The gray of memory swirls as a fog about the eerie mesh of truth.  'And what is truth but lies from a certain point of view?'  The cynicism marches closer.  Infinitesimally it encroaches upon the struggling, moment after moment its progress never impeded, never helped.

The vibrations continue; the shivering stops.