Nevermind By Forkfoot Butterflies morph from worms, yes, and this is very poetical, but they only live a few weeks after that before turning to ashes and sawdust (actually butterflies come from outer space). X had braces years ago, and couldn’t interact socially with others; listened to a man in flannel sing it’s less dangerous without the Lights (mulatto albino mosquito libido). Flowers blossom and bloom, yes, and this is very poetical, but then they wilt and begin to rot, and they smell like disgusting puke (poppy flowers are used to make heroin and other highly addictive opiates). X heard whispered voices and sold drugs; died last month of Complications. They found strange items in his house and pictures of fantastical creatures (winged humanoids hammerhead whales the bastards under the bed). Birds learn to take to the air, yes, and this is very poetical, but given the opportunity, some birds will eat human flesh (x found a dead bird on his patio once that had crashed into his sliding glass door and he put it in a jar and kept it for the rest of his life). X told his mother when he was a small child that he had seen an Angel. She cursed at him viciously; punched him in the face and threw him down the stairs (don’t you ever lie to me again). The sun rises every morning, yes, and this is very poetical, but then it sets, and it’s dark and cold, and nothing can keep you safe (oh well whatever nevermind).