The butterflies are almost ready, dangling in their silk cocoons from our eyelashes. When the chrysalises begin to tremble and shake, the tailors arrive with their tiny silver sheers and clip them open at the ends. They carefully remove the nascent butterfly, sheering off the wings with a surgeon’s steady hand, from which they sew dew-soft suits of flesh to be purchased by the leisure classes. It has become something of a trend among the idly rich, who have grown tired of walking around their mansions in the same wrinkled, old skin. Only if we breathe heavily through our nostrils, making just enough noise to cover the cocoons’ trembling racket, will the occasional butterfly manage to slip away, fluttering off through the skylight to dwell among the cloud-bound angels wielding their harps like tennis rackets. Then for a moment we can feel our souls come up for air, like magicians emerging unshackled from water tanks of bulletproof glass, as the curtain slowly rises to a theater full of applause.