Thorns and Butterflies

When I was packing up old things in the evening, I found a faded sketchbook. On the first page, there was a drawing of a stinging butterfly, with ink stains on its wings, like unwiped tears. The wind from the balcony lifts the footer, revealing an old photo sandwiched in between. At the entrance of the dusty alley, some people were holding paintbrushes, while others were clutching mobile phones. The demolition notice in the background was whitened by the sun. Later, I moved three times, threw away the moldy books, and deleted half of the words. But I didn't want to throw away this book. After all, some things have not changed the world, but they are enough to warm up the days to come.