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when I was 25 I sat on the bedroom floor of my friend who was in the deepest throes of horrific boyfriend-induced depression. She was a famous, rich, successful, beautiful, young artist who lived by herself right in front of the beach, but was deeply isolated and lost. I’d just been on acid for the first time with a boy who told me I was empty inside. One night we decided to write on paper the qualities of our future big loves, super specific traits. We’d read them aloud to each other, close our eyes and flood our bodies with their essence. She then started making art of butterflies; they became her obsession and symbol. She did this for years and they would be huge sculptural installations that would tour all the hippie festivals for people to dance in front of. Four years later she me borrow a big glow in the dark one for a party I threw, and that night walked in the man that would possess every single quality I asked for when I was just a girl who had driven to the beach to console my sad friend