The scent of discomfort nudges my sinuses. Mixed with too much vanilla. Or maybe it's just not enough musk. Either way, undertones of acrid uneasiness nibble at my consciousness.
I see a moth with familiar hazel eyes on it's wings turn into a butterfly of stained-red ink. I watch it struggle to teach itself the process of unlearning. A lifetime of habits mentally rewound into Gordian knots. Being a voyeur to this personal battle is arousing. And uncomfortable.
It's nothing I've ever seen or experienced before.

It's mystical and haunting and terrifying and familiar.
At any time I can reach out and alter it's transformation with a touch. Not like a pressing a finger into a potter's clay wheel; but as a droplet of lye chasing away a film of filth.

11:49 p.m. - 2014-10-23