The dragonfly wing tripped the light and caught his eye. The fast flash of sun brought with it a memory of fishing by the river. This was from 50, no 60 years back. Back in his native England, far away from this god-forsaken fakery they called life. The summer sun all those years ago had wound up making his nose and cheeks pink with sunny fun and the fish they caught had been for supper. Not much of a catch but the best tasting flesh that he had ever sunk his teeth into. Of course he knew that the rose-tint of time played a big part in this, but who cares when it seems so real. Come to think of it maybe he should just let go of the past and note what the new world had to pretend to offer - just like all the rows upon rows of the rest of them in the vast glass case. The one thing that stopped him though was the niggling thought that she might still be alive and living real, not in dreamland. He refused to let go and held on to the light.