For butterflies and wayward hearts, it is impossible to fight their wings inevitably being ripped off at the seams. It makes no sense to have such beauty desecrated for childish games, but in this dead-end world beautiful things need to be broken it seems. Because people are sad, and they find comfort in commissary.

“If we leave them whole, these graceful beasts, then what will they make of the rest of us?” this poor race thinks. “What will such creatures make of poor bastards without the charms and sweet secrets of these delicate creatures, these creatures that can soar on a whisper from a lover or the wind? What will they make of us in our fathomless pit?”

So their wings are stolen that they may sit and lament with the poor bastards. As these sad, lonely people pass on the lead stones they keep in the dead of their eyes, they say to these once graceful beasts, “Welcome to the rest of your life.”

They mustn’t catch you, Aiden, like that song we used to sing. Don’t ever let them please, for me.