Ever wonder the secrets whispered between the flutters of a wing? I imagine it like this: a cozy kitchen, the warm golden smell of sunlight mixing with soft tales of the universe untold. Like butter on bread, it melts, you know?
Last night, I caught a glimpse of a landscape—mauve skies laced with silver, and there I was, chased by a door that opened not to a room, but to whispers. Maybe it was an echo of a conversation had long ago, or perhaps a premonition of a butterfly's path through the ages. Have you ever felt that?
"A druid's art, they must think," she chuckled, "but I've no magic, just wings made of words, fluttering across a foggy page."