I first saw Mr. Butterfly on the crosswalk connecting the public cementary and park. His appearance was striking. Is striking, even now. I remember him well: A tall, lanky man. He was lean but not athletic. He wore tight, ripped jeans; a tanned suede jacket, and a boulderdash. Mr. Butterfly was an outrage to public decency, if you ask me. But he was unashamed, in fact, bouyant. He had a peculiar way of rolling on the balls of his feet rhymthmically, with a slight jaunt. I daresy his gait was boastful, in a sense The promenade could surrender her body to him, and Mr. Butterfly would be too proud to take her...Most days I look out the window or walk in the garden. There isn't much to do in the facility. Many of the patients and their particular pathologies put my sins to shame. For instance, there is this man who cannot help--and I must emphasize the severity of that his compulsion--revealing himself at playgrounds. The man swears that his "ticks" are not sexual in nature; however, I'm privythat he also masturbates throughout the night. And that's about it, I suppose. I saw this man, he obsessed me, and I woke up in an asylum. Why not? Why doesn't anyone believe me? Little do they know that Mr. Butterly will get to them as well.

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