Butterflies, confetti, and the empty Library

"I was standing in my kitchen trying to bake a cake for a neighbor's birthday, but every time I opened a kitchen drawer, dozens of giant orange and black butterflies kept pouring out like rustling dry paper. They didn't fly away into the air like normal bugs—they just fluttered around my arms and shoulders, sticking to my clothes and hair like soft, weightless stickers. I started laughing out loud because their wings felt so cool and papery against my skin, and the whole room was just glowing with this bright, fluttering orange light. I tried to gently scoop a handful of them up to show someone, but when I opened my palms, they turned into handfuls of soft yellow confetti that floated down to the linoleum floor. Then all of a sudden I was sitting on the floor of an empty library trying to tie my shoe, but my chest was still bubbling over with this light, ecstatic happiness that made me want to jump up and run down the hall."