He was a collector of natural beauty, a lepidopterist, a title he was rather
proud of made him sound like a doctor. Over the years he had become
an authority of butterflies and moths, and people came to see his immense
collection. When visitors asked how he was able to almost keep dead
butterflies to keep their natural colours, he said it was important to stick
a needle through them as soon as possible, before their normal tone
began to disappear gradually. But he had never been able to keep their
usual blush of his dead butterflies like of those in the wild.
One day he saw a rare butterfly ran after it with his net and just caught it
when he fell down a deep hole that had spikes at the bottom. He bled and
no one heard his call for help. The insect in his net he set free and saw it fly
up to the sunlight, a sight that made him happy like seeing his own soul
seeking the freedom of weightlessness. The spikes had severed an aorta an
when morning came his face had lost its natural outdoor colour.
