The mere thought—a museum facility for butterflies?—tickles the imagination. Especially so in the depths of January, the dark season of grudging light, offering back mere seconds daily toward the far-off abundance of spring.
But here it is, just blocks from my home, tucked in among the boundless trees, a wintry oasis of heat and humidity and the seemingly aimless flapping of wings, their bearers zigging and zagging through the weighty air, all sublime brilliance and self-possession, a purity of jazz in flight, never missing a beat…
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I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man. —Chuang Tzu
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Love is like a butterfly: It goes where it pleases and pleases wherever it goes.—Anonymous
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Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. —Muhammad Ali
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As my love gave chase to a butterfly/ So did I give chase to love/ Now here ...
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