Yes, after a playful afternoon of catching butterflies and drinking wine I am most commonly found with purple flowers in my mouth mumbling incoherently about the misfortune of some like Socrates' demise by poison and the currupted youths who then had to be re-currupted into robots of an age-old machine that whistles and cracks to this day at the words of the weary and frights of the scary, a miserable mess speed-wobbling only to collapse into a great big heap of butterfly corpses and dried-up flowers.
