“The electrical fireflies were hovering above Mother’s dark hair to light her path.”
Later, we read:
“We talked. We did not talk of rockets or space, but we talked of Mexico, where we had driven once in an ancient car, and of the butterflies we had caught in the rain forests of green warm Mexico at noon, seeing the hundred butterflies sucked to our radiator, dying there, beating their blue and crimson wings, twitching, beautiful, and sad.”
– Ray Bradbury from a 1951 short story called “Rocket Man”
