I dunno. I've just been so bored with myself lately. There's nothing to do that I want to do. I have lost motivation, but I suppose it's inevitable at some point. It's so neutral and dull.
    It's sort of a feeling. A feeling how time goes by so slow as you sit somewhere calm and noiseless. It hurts sometimes, this sort of torturous feeling. Like sitting on the cement in a yard and having a butterfly trapped under your glass cup. And then you grab up the cup and pull out the butterfly very gently, and you take out your sewing needles, pinning the butterfly's wings to a thickly folded white piece of paper. You see the butterfly squirming out of the pins in pain, but you don't hear anything. It's a silent scream. A pain in feeling, but not in hearing. It's only when you listen so more closely do you hear the scratching of the  beauty's feet. You see desperation. Torture. Pain.
    Butterfly collectors sometimes have no regard for their specimens and don't realize that butterflies have veins in their wings. Isn't it like piercing needles through our own veins? Maybe it feels like pinning a muscle, like pinching the funny bone's muscle. Why else would the butterfly be squirming? Does it not feel? Does it scream on the inside?
    And then you take another needle. And you pin it through its abdomen. You can feel the soft body as you pin it. But you hear a splat. A burst of itself has imploded and exploded at the same time. If the butterfly's lucky maybe it survived. Can a human survive?
    Drown the insects you torture and you wonder even more.