“The safest general characterization of the European philosophical tradition is that it consists of a series of footnotes to Plato.”
–Alfred North Whitehead


Tickling my tummy makes it rumble because butterflies are set loose inside. The surface conceals the circus, the tent blocks the light from chasing the jitters away.

A beautiful face with two eyes, one a smile and the other in pain. My prescriptions are mangled because I lack medical understanding. How to diagnose the situation? One symptom screams for a kiss, the other harmed even by a hug.

There is no way to look a Gemini in the eye. Anyone who tries ends up getting stuck trying to pawn the mean, trying to get a grip on something in between. But there is no middle ground. The lines are sharply drawn.

The question is always reflecting around in my mind, bouncing back and forth: Am I hiding from her or is she hiding from me? Who’s to say if love knows no angles, if it sees around all corners? How do people fall in love, is it just a glance, or does it take more?

What do all the butterflies mean?







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