I wonder if butterflies only wander out of monotony – exhaustion from the glimpses of vibrant colors; searching for the dark jungles and crepitating branches. I wonder if they ever marvel the vigor they possess from consistent soaring; do they die from a few minutes of rest?
The mist they breathe is not even enough to suffice the drained oxygen released from their bodies. Sometimes, I know, they are only seen out of their retro spectrum bodies – a living insect of entertainment.
But what the eyes do not know is their brewing insides; they are not cold.
I feel something too.
WORD COUNT: 100
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