In the novel, Bend Sinister, Vladimir Nabokov describes a fluted glass in conjunction with a blue-veined violet and a jug of hot punch; these objects open the first line of Chapter Seven. I haven’t read the novel, yet. I’ve only recently acquired it, but that singular description is what caused me to buy the book. In a conversation I’ve had with a friend from Moscow—during one of his visits to his family home in Smolensk—I mentioned Vladimir Nabokov, which caused a long, rhapsodic, almost-Nabokovian river of emotional description; the impression was that of giddy, inventive haiku, though what was said had very little to do with the physical structure of venerable, Japanese poetry. Instead, there was a kind of crystalline structure hinging on the three points of physicality, rhythm, and mood. In short, my friend (he works in a bookstore) communicated with me in his second language, while endowing it with a bit of emotional word-play native to his mother tongue. After our discussion, I could only think of the things we’d spoken of. Though Vladimir Nabokov was recognized as a brilliant writer in English; he enjoyed a career as a brilliant writer in Russian. As he was something of a Renaissance man, he also enjoyed extensive renown as a lepidopterist. Indeed, there are some who recognize Vladimir Nabokov only in regard to butterflies. I thought of this as I meandered outside: thinking of butterflies and writers, and the things I’d been told by someone on the other side of the planet. We spoke of butterflies for a while, and Nabokov’s butterflies opened the door to the luminescent butterflies in my friend’s cupboard. The luminescent butterflies (decals, really) led to my own ruminations after our conversation, and with all of this in my head, I ambled outside. I took my camera with me. It was dark. And because I no longer live in Chicago, it was as close to silent as a night near a city might allow. There was a breeze. There was the tap-tap-tap drip of water. Icicles gleamed in night-light, melting. Clouds obscured the upper reaches of the night, catching the orange glow of Chicago in the distance, but despite the night-lights and the city-orange clouds, looming above; there was darkness, and there was something close to silence. Words drifted through my mind: the description of a fluted glass, the white-green glow of butterflies in a cupboard, and I was alone with those images, embraced by the night. After a while, I followed the tap-tap-tap of dripping water: an icicle, dissolving. I captured it with my camera… As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.