I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?
This afternoon I was going out to get some pictures from a nearby baroquesque garden. This little fella was so busy on the flowers, flitting from blossom to blossom, seemingly never still, that I wondered if I could even get a good shot. I guess it took me almost a hundred trials to get this halfway decent picture. If I only wouldn’t hold my breath while pushing the trigger, the whole affair would have been a lot more relaxed.