It doesn't hurt until it brushes against an old wound, leaving a white trail on the red skin. He wants to shred it off, bring out what's beneath. It's been too long, with crimson wings and in his tainted pupa. He can see them flutter, with anticipation.

He looks in the mirror and all he can see is a sack of deformity.

There are two characters in this story. One represents perfection. He reflects golden light at the beginning of a new day. He shines, carries past and the future, all ready to be experienced, all ready to be researched. He holds too many secrets, but he is just that. Perfect. Envied by nature because of it's independency.

The other is in a deep slumber. He's grown older, bigger. With each step he took, he closed himself to outside. Every exale took away a part of him. A part of him, a box of love, hope, trust. His once bright smile turned into one given with caution, disappearing into a casual one.

All fake with lights to mislead predators. He doesn't mean to smile anymore. He just wants to rest.

His once graceful figure hid into a cocoon, concealing his defects.

"Beautiful," he hears, "You are so beautiful," is being chanted in his ears. He smiles, his eyes curves, and he firmly says,

'No, I'm not.' "Thank you."

Voices whisper they love him, they will take care of him, that he is safe in their hands. Shadows dance around him and he allows them. He feels secure covered by the spirits of nature, but he doesn't believe.

He allows to be pampered, lies of flying away one day being promised one by one.

He's promised pure white wings, illuminating in his own light, basking under the sun. He doesn't want that, he doesn't want dreams, doesn't need to fly towards a sky he will never reach.

"I love you," the sky whispers to him.

No, you don't

Crawling out of his cosy skin, he lays and waits. He sees his tattered wings, tainted with raindrops. Wind whispers him songs, one of a dream, light, beyond the green wall he's promised a blue heaven.

All he needs is to spread his wings and to fly, the wind will carry him there.





It doesn't hurt the first time. Metal clashes with the ethereal print of nature on his skin. He feels that it's already over, so that it shouldn't be torturous. He bathes in the light, warming him and calming him down, promising him, promising him, promising him words that he now knows will never be true.

The third time, he finds out he can't move his body anymore. The wind is too far away, he can't feel it, he can't hear it's song anymore. The sky watches over him still, smiling at him, smiling at him, promising him that it will be okay.

He reflects from the glass, the next time he sees himself. He smiles. He's no longer a bag of imperfection, but a display of perfection, almost matching the prettiness of obscurity. His last breath is invisible on the glass as the red lights of sun disappear, shadows hide in the darkness. He is content, knowing he achieved what he wanted. His skin shines of crimson, drips of rain drying. He lays on the white floor, body sprawled.

He doesn't need to open his eyes again.





_{Exhibit Item 51: Gorgeous red butterfly.}


By your side

0 secret agent man