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They seem only an ornament to society, and yet, if they were gone, how substantial would be their loss. Soar up high with the beauty and grace of a butterfly. The butterfly does not count the months of its life but rather it counts the moments and yet all the time it has is still enough. Each butterfly that you see is a reminder that there is always a person who longs for you to see, and that is me.

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May the butterfly that I sent to find you so it can give you delight and keep you from being blue? The butterfly is a flying flower, the flower a tethered butterfly. Adding wings to caterpillars does not create butterflies, it creates awkward and dysfunctional caterpillars. Butterflies are created through transformation. Not quite birds, as they were not quite flowers, mysterious and fascinating as are all indeterminate creatures. We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy!

Float near me; do not yet depart! A solemn image to my heart. Awaken to the universes simple gift of the butterfly. Watch with fascination and joy as a jeweled treasure glides by and gently touches your soul.

What we thought as a difficult struggle in our lives is actually a metamorphosis. The caterpillar believes that she is an ugly creature until she became a butterfly and came to realize how beautiful she is destined to be. Butterflies are tiny, graceful and enchanting creatures that lead us to the bright and happy side of life. The butterfly flits from bloom to bloom, as not to miss one fragrant plume.

In her sight exists no garden finale, only paradise of flowered hill and valley. Butterflies are a breath of beauty fluttering by, they are mystery chronicled upon wing, and they bring forth the grace and wonder of this world to our eyes every day. I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free. You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar. Butterflies, flowers that fly and all but sing. They seemed to suddenly come upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in a winter wood. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days, three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

Well, I must endure the presence of a few caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. Life is short. If you doubt me, ask a butterfly. Their average lifespan is a mere five to fourteen days. She liked being reminded of butterflies. She remembered being six or seven and crying over the fates of the butterflies in her yard after learning that they lived for only a few days.

Watching them flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, her mother had said to her, see, they have a beautiful life. Alice liked remembering that. He said that we belonged together because he was born with a flower and I was born with a butterfly and that flowers and butterflies need each other for survival. I tell of hearts and souls and dances. Butterflies and second chances; desperate ones and dreamers bound, seeking life from barren ground, who suffer on in earthly fate.

The bitter pain of agony hate, might but they stop and here forgive. Would break the bonds to breathe and live.

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And find that God in goodness brings. A chance for change, the hope of wings, to rest in Him, and self to die. And so become a butterfly. When I was a girl I would look out my bedroom window at the caterpillars; I envied them so much. No matter what they were before, no matter what happened to them, they could just hide away and turn into these beautiful creatures that could fly away completely untouched.

I could just hide away and turn into these beautiful creatures that could fly away completely untouched.

On The Wings Of Love November 2, 2015 Teaser

Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end. We are all butterflies. Earth is our chrysalis.

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Some things, when they change, never do return to the way they once were. Like a butterfly stuck in a chrysalis, waiting for the perfect moment, I was waiting for the day I could burst forth and fly away and find my home. But on paper, things can live forever. On paper, a butterfly never dies. Minutes passed by. A little blue butterfly landed on my nose. I blinked at it and it fluttered to my ear. A big yellow butterfly gently floated over and landed on my paw. Soon a whole swarm of them floated up and down around me, like a swirl of multicolored petals.

It happened in my backyard, too, if the magic was strong enough. Butterflies were small and light, and very magic sensitive. For some reason I made them feel safe and they gravitate to me like iron shavings to a magnet. You can only chase a butterfly for so long. A fallen blossom returning to the bough, I thought. But no, a butterfly. Only in a place where the rules of the game remain fixed is there time for butterflies to evolve to feed on the shit of birds that evolved to follow ants.

A constant flickering confetti of butterflies showered the town of Darwin. Designer insects, I think of them now: there was something enormously wasteful, extravagant even, about the profusion of patterns and shapes and brilliant colors. Ferman Smith. Ken Katin. A Non.