A Dreaming Firefly...she drifts through the wind, lights flickering, on a quest for imagination. Aha! Perfect! Books, paper-bound fantasies just waiting to be read. Oh, how her mind is indulged in spectacular adventures, romantic novellas, exciting series. Soon after, her brain activity spikes, and she finds herself acting as a character in a book, being it, feeling it, creating it. Her dreams are vivid, filled with awe-inspiring moments, a small kiss on the cheek, or plunging into a dark chasm miles deep. She never wants to forget them. Never. So, she writes them down, expanding, elaborating, electrifying them. They become the fantasies so that you, my dear reader, may come to know this dreaming firefly's exhilarating dreams and visions. If you are ever at a loss, missing your creativity, you know that there is a faint glow of a specific firefly, and she is ready to spark you, infuse you, with ideas and adventures that seemingly last forever. Now, it seems, this firefly in the dark, is looking for something to make her dream again.

A Dreaming Firefly...she now is filling herself up with yet another book. But this time, she wishes to not only record her fantasies, but she wants to share them. Thus Disparate is born. Although not perfectly satisfied, a certain firefly is content enough. She wonders if she articulated enough for it to grab one's attention, like her light in the darkness. With imagination and creativity comes curiosity. And this little critter is certainly very inquisitive today. Will you be willing and meddle with her story? She is wondering, and only you, my dear reader, can provide the answer to cease her wondering.

A Dreaming Firefly...she knows no one bothers to read her literary works. You would expect her to be dejected, sad, downcast like Eeyore. Instead, she is high up in a tree somewhere in her vast imagination, looking over a circle of water. Voices shout from below. She must go, but where? Back to the others, in her fantasy, or reality, where chores and responsibilities need to be taken care of? She buzzes her wings, feeling stupid. Of course, she must go back to reality, just as her mother teaches her. She ceases her vision, and it dissipates. Back to work she goes, but she promises herself that she will get back to her favourite corner of her room and plunge in another book, so skillfully written by an author who spends a great deal of time planning, creating, writing a literary piece of art. She knows she will never be like that, but it is alright. This is good enough.