Hear, landmarkers. May this spinning of a tale allow you some
contemplation on your actions, as well as your enemies'.

The butterfly said to the spider, "Why do you spin your web? Wouldn't it
be better to live on dewdrops and sunshine instead of ensnaring flies
with transparent lies? Why, Mr. Spider?"
The butterfly continued, "How can you live a life built on death? Why
don't you use your skills for better good? Why don't you weave a fairy a
spider-silk gown, so she can be the envy of a Midsummer's ball, or give
a downtrodden ladybug a place to call home?"


The spider paused for a minute, eight eyes looking far into the
star-spotted sky. The butterfly thought he saw pink clouds pass by,
cotton-candy soft.

Finally, the spider replied slowly, as if placing every jagged thought
into a delicate word, "It's true my weavings and meanings could be used
for other things. I -could- craft a fairy's dress or build a shelter
from the rain. But to live on water and light? I cannot flit through the
air and grace the world with color, an ephemeral splash of happiness. A
spider cannot live like a butterfly, just as a butterfly cannot be a
spider. A spider will live as it has always lived."

The butterfly was puzzled. "Mr. Spider, I still do not understand. What
do you mean by all of this? Why can't you live like me? And why can't I
live like you? What makes us different? Do you kill out of hatred or
spite? Why murder your neighbor?"

The spider was silent. Slowly, he said, "You do not understand me. And I
can never understand you. Nothing you say will change my mind, and
absolutely nothing I say will change yours. It's too late now." "...we
never will..." the spider whispered. Eight eyes glittered with broken
dreams of endless azure skies and borrowed crystal wings.

The spider bit down. The butterfly said no more... faceted eyes watched
the world swirl into a surreal jumble of pastel tints and fade into
eternal black. And the spider said, "This is the way it is, little
butterfly. Please try to understand, even if you can't."

The spider finished eating, and turned his eight eyes to the sky,
secretly wishing for crystalline wings to rip the strings that so
unforgivingly tie him to his web.



...shattered rainbow wings crumple through the wind like stained
glass...
...pretty shards etched upon cotton-candy clouds...
...razor-sharp to slice the cerulean sky into techicolor ribbons...
...an ephemeral moment of happiness...
...the world turned askew, upside-down...

Imagine the butterfly and the spider, this landmarking season.

Cheers.

-High Prince of Ulangi, Nighty Nightshadow Thalion





Story inspired by: Anonymous

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Lanosian, in the year 122 MA.