They hover around you for the taking. Like buzzing little bees. No. More like butterflies. You collect them like a child does baseball cards or even fucking comic books. Their strikingly beautiful colors dazzle you and entertain that inner longing for something new. Something beautiful and something strange. They’re bottled and put on display, wings half heartedly flutter against the immovable lid of your compassion, then finally give in and the little creatures tumble down. It’s the wings that so captivate you. The various colors and intriguing patterns keep you dazed and entertained for as long as it takes to look to the jar on your right.
…..and as I stared into the neon lights I felt the magic of the night. I felt the drift and embraced the pull. Alone and stoned and walking aimlessly, drifting and grifting through alleys and souls. Gift the world and I’d ask for a receipt and a smile, because one was always infinitely more fucking valuable than the other. Then in the end it didn’t matter because chains of loyalty are just that, correct?
Cotton balls and alcohol and a deep peaceful sleep for the collected. They fall light and quiet and feel a weightless extension of the tweezers. Fix into place and stretch wide the wings. Breathe deep and steady the hands as shaking shall bring only harm. Steady now, gently pierce the thorax and pin into place your most curious infatuation. Just like butterflies.