As I walked along the road, I felt someone was stalking me. I glanced over my shoulder but there was no-one there. The feeling remained though, like a faint buzzing on the corner of my brain. Something sitting there on the edge. A butterfly perhaps, gently flapping its wings. Creating a little hum. Not allowing me to forget. To forget that other part of me that had closed off and gone to sleep. Being stalked by a butterfly: that was strange. Or was it my writing mind digging its way out of the misty lakes. Slipping and sliding backwards as it came. Holding on to the smooth sided gyri of the brain, hauling itself over snapping synapses until finally it was back in consciousness, diminished but intact.