on potential

If you were to ask a caterpillar what it knew of silk it would only speak of hunger. The solitude required for metamorphis is exhausting; it's every instinct is attuned to accumulation.

But caterpillars cannot communicate; they are all legs, teeth and tastebuds. It's whole being is segregated into bundles of What Will Be.

Destiny need not be tangible. The caterpillar is a masticating blue print. Evolution winks and clucks it's tongue, "Kid you got potential; this cluster of cells will one day be antennae, this one here a wing."

The caterpillar eats on.

The heart of a butterfly is a long and slender muscle, stretching along it's nervous system, suspended between it's wings. If you teach an old caterpillar new tricks they will be recalled upon metamorphosis.

If you ask a butterfly what it knows of flight it will tell you that it is somewhere between though and emotion.

If you ask it what it remembers of childhood it will teach you to taste your dreams.