Everyone knows he has a collection and he walks along the corridors of his mismatched, frozen stacks of books which reach up as if he might touch the sky through them.

And he walks, quietly, little smile on his face, to his special collection. Both he and his opposite have one, after all. But where the other holds books, this holds something far, far more special.

He opens the door.

The room is larger than life and twice as full.

Of butterflies.

Butterflies of all sizes and shapes dance in the air. It is hard to see the walls for the butterflies, and there is a reason for that.

He shuts the door behind him and carefully selects a butterfly. Like all the butterflies, it has a pair of hourglasses on each wing. This one has just run out of sand.

He carefully selects a very long pin and carries the fluttering, panicking insect to one of the walls (that can't be seen for all those butterflies) and finds one of those small, small clear spaces.

And lovingly, he slides the pin into its body into the wall. It flutters, in pain, reaching for freedom.

"You did it to yourself," he murmurs.

Devotedly, he watches it flutter until it is motionless, while all around him, butterflies fly freely.