I'm soft. I keep forgetting. I know I'm not always soft. I do things that most people will live in fear of all their lives. Still here I am soft and even scared of being seen. Never scared of making myself seen. I'm real good at that. I am practiced.
But to be seen. Just to be, and then seen. I have no butterflies but one to torment my stomach. And so now you are aware. And I am aware. And I wonder at how you may look at him.
I scream, "this has little to do with me as much as anybody." But, sadly, men talk of butterflies, to avoid the inevitable. Mine alone is alone. Wouldn't that be something if it were true? No it would not. It is only something, false as the something it came from. "Mine alone is alone" refering to some inner creature, said to move stomachs to anticipation and lightness, or anxiety, in flutters. A whole bunch of them, I said, is more preposterous than just one.
About the butterfly, was it a butterfly?
What it sounds like.
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