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 privy
that
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.

mgl cstr