Like a butterfly pinned on a wall, the rhythm of the world doesn’t always move to the rhythm of the people that live in it. Some people are stuck in boxes others create for them.  Some hang onto the edge of what people expect. The frequency, intensity and velocity of the wounds of the heart and mind are the hardest to fix. It is pollution covering the spirit. The melancholy of all the people not able to fully realize and live the person they are, is held in the wings of these gilded butterflies. You are unfinished when you become the total of what was taken away, the sound made louder in its absence. The silence of paths not taken interspersed with the density of the pain inside the mind. The flight path altered by the winds of change.