Buying a moped has taught me many new feelings: the simultaneous joy and terror of whipping down the highway with the wind wrapped around you, the sting of rain in your eyes as your drenched body speeds toward home, the smell of the damp earth, the rotting earth, the fragrant earth, all filling you up as you explore it. And of course the pain of little bugs slamming into you, having their lives ripped away from them for the sake of your need to travel with speed.

On one particular day a butterfly of deep black velvet and vivid blue crossed my path and hammered into my chest. It's surprising density crunching against my soft flesh, it then softly fell into my shirt where it's corpse began tickling my skin. When traveling at high speeds on the highway, one cannot simply stop to remove the dead butterfly from one's cleavage. One must accept that it is there and ignore it, lest one become like the butterfly on the windshield of the car behind.

For 10 kilometers I carried it's body, an unexpected funeral march for a butterfly. It's weight was heavy, not in grams, but in guilt. Why must we travel so fast? Why do I need to always go? How many creatures must I sacrifice for my own greed?

Finally, the stopping of a bus in front of me allowed me to slow down, and I anticipated the moment to send my hands searching for the body, ready to release my morbid burden. But as I slowed and the soft breeze moved through the folds of my blouse, the butterfly emerged, unscathed, and danced off into the sunlight.