Full of anger and sweet sorrow, the fragile butterfly desperately wants a home. She wants the sunshine, she tries to be the sun. All is fair in love and war. Her wings chip away when she is dropped all the time. But this is the price she pays for flying to high places. And beleiving. The price she pays for embracing the wind so unconditionally, for shedding her colors onto gray spaces all because she knows color and about how joy is attained. Her screams are so silent and pierce through the ears of all the rocks of all the mountains. Thus she has no defense but the voice of the mute. She stands alone on legs so weak in a courtroom of lions. She wonders whether she might sometime be granted the privelage from the wind to be carried off and spread into many many different things out into the stormy waters of the ocean. Perhaps then through multiplication, she might be cancelled out. She gazes longful of such a plight out onto the water and by the bank of her broken dreams she sits down to weep.