Perhaps a dourness has set in that affects my vision of my day, my backyard, to change things to suit my mood.
A butterfly, beautiful–black wings dotted with white and slashed with orange– flys by me. Flys by again, and again, and again. Lovely, I think, graceful, but with the lousiest sense of direction, much like my own.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
That’s good right there. }:)
Thanks Jason, I knew you’d appreciate it.