Ancient books and butterflies are the spines of the mind, flying with their papery, weather beaten wings, trapped under a case frozen in time.
Preserved with the same idea intact, rewound back to a moment saved by words and sour moth balls.
It is the breath of the past, sucked straight from marmalade jars in old bookstores.
That reminiscent taste, lingering, subsiding, fading away, until it is just dust resting on the wings of some aging book, wedged under a stack of secondhand memories.
