Moths, by virtue of their fascination with light, are children of the Moon (that poor widow who pines so for her lost King). They are the paper paupers of Night, dusted in white ash. It is this dust that lets them fly. When you hold a moth in your hand and rub its wings, its life is smeared across your finger. A moth that cannot fly is but a misshapen worm.

This is the way we kill fantasy.

Butterflies, those prismatic dandies, are the superficial sycophants of the Day. They are nothing beneath their brightly colored cloaks; they have nothing but their rainbow processionals. The fabric of their wings is fragile and tears easily when grasped by clumsy hands. A butterfly bereft of flight is but a leaf not yet frozen by winter.

This is the way we kill fancy.

Like other symbolic structures that revolve around the eternal duality, the moth and the butterfly have been inextricably linked as a "pair," though the biollogy is distinct. This method of pairing, while more fantasy than factual, is the root of all language, and in this way, fantasy is more "true" than reality.