Thomas
Edison was Nicola Tesla’s nemesis in this version of time, but he
nonetheless gave life to the desires of the insomniac butterfly. Before
Edison, there were butterflies: delicate travellers, battering wings to
buttered wind. There was, of course, the pupal stage and wormy
adolescence; but then there was glorious flight, always in the glow
under the sun, whose children were days.
In ancient pasts, say the elder butterflies, bands of buttered wing-things left the blanket of the solar gel for the cloak of night. They became the pale shadows of the butterfly aviators. Insomniac butterflies chased in vain the caprice of the moon, and the moon marked the moth-child tribe with a pallor that told of exile. The shadows of butter-wings flapped pale, chasing the moon-rock, who shifted and made the tides undulate and ebb. Then a creature with no wings, who missed so dearly the sun and its children, had a brain.
The melon-jar of Mr. Edison was not a firefly, but it preferred thought-making with the moon. In that, he was a kindred spirit of the moth-child tribe. Despite Mr. Edison’s lunar inclinations, the deep love his melon-jar had for the moon did not fix the shape-shifting that moon practiced so devoutly. The Edison melon-jar moved the Edison body to make orbs which mimicked sun and had small day things aglow in the night: shadows of the sun’s children. From then on, the moth-child tribe clung to those orbs. They forever thank Mr. Edison.
In ancient pasts, say the elder butterflies, bands of buttered wing-things left the blanket of the solar gel for the cloak of night. They became the pale shadows of the butterfly aviators. Insomniac butterflies chased in vain the caprice of the moon, and the moon marked the moth-child tribe with a pallor that told of exile. The shadows of butter-wings flapped pale, chasing the moon-rock, who shifted and made the tides undulate and ebb. Then a creature with no wings, who missed so dearly the sun and its children, had a brain.
The melon-jar of Mr. Edison was not a firefly, but it preferred thought-making with the moon. In that, he was a kindred spirit of the moth-child tribe. Despite Mr. Edison’s lunar inclinations, the deep love his melon-jar had for the moon did not fix the shape-shifting that moon practiced so devoutly. The Edison melon-jar moved the Edison body to make orbs which mimicked sun and had small day things aglow in the night: shadows of the sun’s children. From then on, the moth-child tribe clung to those orbs. They forever thank Mr. Edison.
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