a proposal: the most beautiful moment on earth
is the rebirth of the butterfly. it lives, loves, and dies in a summer. it dances on the heads of flowers and drinks into the night time and stumbles into death on paper wings.
a fact: we are not butterflies, though some of us long to be.
a thought: we are born screaming, eyes screwed up against the light, torn from a warm, watery cocoon, blood in our mouths, reeking of new life.
woe’re born hungry and wanting, instinct driving us to feed blind. the only thing we have in common with a butterfly is our frailty and
take that aside, you’ll see – where the butterfly is a whisper, we are a storm,a hurricane of needles, bundled beneath and between bone and skin.
– t. bennett