There were times he would just sit at the park in his Mustang and watch the little butterflies dance and play. Then when he felt an uncomfortable rise in his jeans, he’d drive away.
He would stick the pin through those he caught, immortalizing their innocence and youth. And they would just sit there, their graceful energy frozen, with all the others. But unlike many of the caterpillars in the park, he could play with his butterflies.
Sometimes, he would stumble upon a wounded moth, wings tattered, covered in ants, and he would sit and watch. He watched as the ants nipped at the writhing thing until it gave up at last. The moths, they spat their sinister accusations, befouling his collection with their hideous disfigurement. So he watched their torment with delight.
While others spoke with malice about his art, he was but a spider hard at work. Every night he spun his web – an intricate fortification of contemplation and passion – only to have it smashed under their big feet.
With his freedom, dignity – everything – to lose, the spider would wait in the crevasse with the other spiders. Next time he was going to pin the most beautiful one in the park, he was sure of it.