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Forget the day , as it’s a fly-by , a song on the wind , blown hither and yon from lips to the monarch’s parcel route , shrouded by wispy cloud matter into the jet stream over hills into valleys and out into the warm breath of the gulf .


The immortal bug croons on a waft of melancholy and drifts into through and around space , or the atmosphere , like a lollygagger out of control … a habitual lackadaisical dunderhead … a flower sniffing hobo set adrift on the seas of fate high and high on life .


No such nonsense , just a penchant for a sweet bouquet and so ends this flight of fancy , for the winged are as we are and pulled by the gravity of existence into the depths of our surroundings … engulfed by life and beleaguered by a tendency to feed and survive .


So feed , on cake , and burst free . Fly , fly , fly .