“You see the butterflies? How delicate they are? Let them out or just bury them deep, deep inside. One may still escape and fly, no matter how hard you try to keep it underground. Some may yield to you, resentful, always hanging around on the contours of your body, of your soul. Stories circling, forming a straight line, bending into a spiral. The earth needs no words when it’s about…you know… I mean… well… some are wrapped in white cotton till you decide to give birth. Once again.”