It comes to me slowly as I head north through the dark countryside—the only lights are up in the mountains where the prosperous young are building their getaway houses, and of course, in the sky, all the splurged wattage of the stars. Lío is right. The nightmare is over; we are free at last. But the thing that is making me tremble, that I do not want to say out loud—and I’ll say it once only and it’s done. Was it for this, the sacrifice of the butterflies?
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