I will try to cram these paragraphs full of facts and give them a weight and shape no greater than that of a cloud of blue butterflies.
I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.
Art is the fatal net which catches these strange moments on the wing like mysterious butterflies, fleeing the innocence and distraction of common men.
Butterflies are always following me, everywhere I go.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
Everyone is like a butterfly, they start out ugly and awkward and then morph into beautiful graceful butterflies that everyone loves.
I love that feeling of being in love, the effect of having butterflies when you wake up in the morning. That is special.