Aging from the butterfly house looking back

I have lingered in the caves of winter, glass smooth houses containing brown clippers, satisfaction in green, blue and brown, leaves containing messages of butterflies, and one does not stop long to watch the moist drops of dew, for I am aging, already my bones have grown together in places, and I inject myself with interfurons to stop the ache. Then, I remember my fifteenth year and I was too young, but strong and worked a time with wood. That was long ago.

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