And eventually he got tired, you know, of chasing butterflies who thought real affection was abuse, of putting up with the rain, that rain whose clouds never recognized the essence of his existence.
Country songs and quiet nights, A colored journal on hazy twilights, I wish you could hold the hand of my eyes. Can you go across the shoreline with me, to find me again?
But butterflies, if I should chant or chase after them, then there's no them after all. I want not a shy shear love, I want that sky clear love, for when or whence what's mine comes, there's no masking, nor asking.