butterfly [Theme] Page 3

Like a Ghost she
Butterfly on my hand
Like someone's soul!

What is it? A flower fallen
Back to the flying branch?
No. It's a butterfly.

Falling flower
Returned suddenly to the branch
Turned out to be: butterfly!

In a thicket of weeds,
Look great
Butterflies were born!

There is a butterfly one day,
I have only a little more.
I would like to live and live
And longer and easier.
So all I had the strength
So all I have enough time.
To life to have time to eat,
To catch to come loose with order.
Very short human age,
Somehow to live long would like.
To make me happy at least a bit
To experience and live other.

... butterflies fly between the two worlds, so to follow them into the twilight dangerous.

There are, in fact, only one problem... How to break through? How to enter at will? How to break a chrysalis and become a butterfly?

Butterflies are the flowers culled by the wind.

She often thought about how I would like to fly and be free. Butterfly was an example.

Butterfly... the People... Who not only singed his wings on the candle of fate...

- Butterflies in the stomach. - Kara sighed. - I know what you mean. You know what I think? They are always there for everyone.
- As bacteria?
- What kind of bacteria? Butterflies! And butterflies for some people on a chemical level butterflies react to other people. It's like pheromones when they are around, the butterflies begin their dance. And nothing can be done, it's... it's chemistry.
Chemistry. How romantic.
You know. Bad butterflies.

Butterfly always flies to the fire and dies. But if she's not going to fire, it is already not a butterfly.

Butterflies - the most ephemeral and the most beautiful creatures on Earth. Appear from somewhere, quietly living out their tiny lives, without requiring almost nothing, and then disappear, perhaps, in some other world... not the same as ours.

She writes diary of a butterfly. Sadness about the other colors and the smile of the sun. On the transience of the day and its great importance for living before sunset. She writes diary of a butterfly, painting of multi-colored pollen dreams, which sees. She is so kind, so alive, so sincere writes about the same, on its only flight and a bright bright light ahead, which she's bound to get burned but will, on a moment - very happy. She says the smell of the sky. She shivers with delight and sings about love. She writes diary of a butterfly, and I... I don't read it. I smoke in the window, press a nausea and try to avoid looking at this shabby walls, ugly on the needle sticking out between the large beautiful wings.