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CHAPTER SIX

Reverence is an interesting word, often applied more
discriminately than others of its caliber. So, when the young
man I had come to see used it to describe his feelings toward
his dreams, I felt inclined to listen a bit more carefully.
“There is wisdom within my dreams,” the Sleep Sage
said, “beyond the pull of standard reason and logic. It is
crafted from experiences that have not been filtered through
the waking senses, and so persists as a knowing without
conventional form or substance.” The man barely moved,
lying on his bed, looking at the moths orbiting a naked bulb.
Where the electricity came from to supply the light, I had no
idea. The city was in ruins, but I was sure it wasn’t suffering
from a paucity of energy resources, no matter how gruesome
or unearthly.
“Moths,” he continued. “They are so much different than
butterflies. They recall the difference between waking and
dreaming. You see, the butterfly is a beautiful creature, but
only and ultimately explicit, wearing its colors upon the
dust of its wings. Such a creature can only decorate the
world, just a living bow tied whimsically around a gust of
wind, fluttering beautifully, pointlessly. Like most things,
the butterfly is really just a dried-up dream that has lost its
connection to the other side, and so has become an exhibition
without substance or source.
“The moth, however, is a great adventurer, a night-
thing—it is the custodian of uncommon desires. Not content

70 | Mark Anzalone