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A butterfly wanders above the grass under a wet but warm afternoon and mild dews invite you to become part of them. They make you feel like you live in a parallel fashion, in which both of you are lines who don’t intersect because you have a dream and they don’t. You are invited by a hundred green leaves on the floor raising the only fingers that they have towards the sky that they can’t reach. The grass are not as fastidious, you may step on them when you catch the butterfly, but they can’t turn to needles when you step on them with the faces of your feet.