We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever.
-Carl Sagan

The lamps dim twice, the hours have claimed the night. Her hair released from its silvery clip falls loosely on noble shoulders. Searching the room of unmet faces she gathers her scarf faded pink at the edges. An anonymous stranger wipes rouge from her cheeks with a monogrammed cuff and the door softly closes.
Her starry eyes blink, a face behind a face, a moth without wings, the dream and the dreamer.