In the beginning, he would try to wash the cocoon from his body. He would stare into the streams or springs in desperation, watching strands of himself drift away. Before long, it began to grow again, too quickly for him to wash off. He bled heat. The blood and silk became a palimpsest, then a hardening mess of bandages, then a dark cocoon surrounding him. Night fell in his narrow world. Dark stars glinted inside of him and splattered outside of him. The blood and silk kept flowing and the cocoon kept growing. It was possible that he would cease to exist. It seemed clear now, for cocoons are sanctuaries of transformation. Nevertheless, there were seasons of great peace and the sensation of feeling lightweight and complete. There were also seasons of hell, when he thought he was buried alive in black earth and fire. The silence was not sacred. One day, a great wind, or a perhaps a blade, slashed the cocoon, and for a moment he saw what he had become and would become yet in the pale blue light of dawn trickling in. And it was not a butterfly or moth that he saw.