The second interlocutor cleared his throat: 'You ever sit at your desk in your working study overlooking the Park, it's about 2 a.m., you've dimmed the interior to better appreciate the room awash in the mingled light of the city's incandescence from below, all neons and soft saxophone synths, and the faint starfield above, bright blazing things screaming to be seen against the contaminating background illumination of mass urbanity, the wife and children safely asleep in their beds, you on your sixth hour of post-dinner work, the flow of documents and e-mails and conference calls with London and Hong Kong totally consuming you, giving you meaning and purpose--that mild, loving tingle emanating from your basal ganglia--and a solitary monarch butterfly lands on one of your floor-to-ceilings, nature resplendent, hues of vermilion and a black so deep it can't stay set, your cones and rods flipping back and forth between Marianas Trench Midnight Blue and Point Zero Totality of Annihilation Nothingness Black, and you're staring now not at the butterfly itself but its shadow which has landed just so on your first edition copy of Syme's masterful Tacitus, and suddenly, almost imperceptibly, that shadow shifts ever so slightly, like the flicker of a television set tuned to static, a single centimeter to the right along the midspine of Syme's culminating life work, such a minuscule movement but enough to tell you that the normal working order of things isn't quite as neatly fixed as we delude ourselves into thinking? That movement of the butterfly's shadow--that's his other moniker.'

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4359035&forum_id=3#38945461)