Butterfly wings

At noon, I went to review my foot injury, recovered quite smoothly, asked questions, and at the end of the month I could run freely. Back in the courtyard, I saw the butterfly struggling on the ground, probably its tentacles stuck in the sand and gravel crevices of the pavement. Gently pinching its wings, it left the ground, and I let go to see if it could fly, and it did flutter and flew away. I wanted it to dance in the palm of my hand for a while. Karma sometimes, me and this butterfly, only this moment. And scorching sparks, and roasted new tea. Books are drowsy, and reading books can really be tired. The last sentence of a girl's last words was seen in the push news: Reflect on this matter and leave it to the years. Heartache, to read the second year of junior high school children, how cold will write such a decisive suicide note. Children, aren't they all like the wings of a butterfly, and they must take care of the infinite lifting in order to fly high?