
The children tell me without whispers. I can see it their dreams, burning through their eyelids, swelling into a storm. Save us, they say, save us. There is no justice in science, and no science without sacrifice. Who has suffered for you? Many. Why did they suffer for you? They were given no other option.
The wings are like flower petals. Delicate, vein-covered sheets of gossamer. They can’t weigh more than a feather. I wish I could trace those veins, the ones lined with the glitter of fairies, tinted with sunshine, and obedient to their own natural design. But every time I reach for one, extend a shaking finger, the glass stops me. The butterfly feels it and rouses, only the flutter of wings and a flash of color before it glides through the air with the dandelions.
Instead, I clutch the camera close to my throbbing heart and raise its head. Snap. The Polaroid develops and slides into my hand, edges warm. I wave the paper and the image slowly slinks onto the page. I trace the butterfly’s wings flapping in the sky. At least I can pretend.
The wings are like flower petals. Delicate, vein-covered sheets of gossamer.
but I felt like this had too much 'image' and too little 'character'. I call this the Makoto Shinkai style, and I have hard times mastering it, while you...you have it wrapped around your little finger.