The man gently lifts a Red Admiral butterfly from a Budlier bush. It sits silently in the fleshy pillows of his palms. Legs if dipped in ink would make the finest line to ever be seen by man.
Nipping the wings together with his thumb and finger, he brings a stapler from his pocket and staples the wings together. The wings left standing like a dark dusty sail of a forgotten sailing boat. He then soaks the garden in petrol and strikes a match, wincing at the bright yellow flame.
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