"Don't get sentimental, it always ends up drivel."

You take your usual seat by the window, headphones and all.

The big red bus ambles along the road, and then halts at a traffic signal. You gaze fixedly out the bus window, at the next lane.
Bikes and cars flit endlessly across it.
You spot something hovering above the lane. It's a butterfly.
A big, butterfly; with wings striped a black and bright orange. A Monarch.
Of course, you christen it Madame Butterfly.

Madame Butterfly hovers over the road, dodging the endless volley of vehicles.
She performs an intricate ballet, pirouetting around each bike. Twirl, twirl, flip.
She dances the Danse Macabre as if she's done so all her precious little life.
You smile to yourself. Your heart has formed an unspoken bond with Madame Butterfly already.

Suddenly, Madame Butterfly falters.
She got too carried away.
A misstep.
A stumble.
One
Tiny
Slip-up.

A bike collides with Madame Butterfly, as you watch in horror.
Her wing is broken.
Her spirit, wounded.
She quietly falls to the ground, with the grace of a dead leaf.
Wings twitch, legs are going.
No sooner does she touch the ground, than three vehicles run over her body in quick succession.
Madame Butterfly is dead.
Crushed like a bug in the ground.


The bus starts to move.
Macklemore is playing on your iPod. Otherside.

She never got up, she never got up

We live on the cusp of death thinkin' that it won't be us

It won't be us

It won't be us

It won't be us

A tiny part of you died with Madame Butterfly that day.