Molly looked away at Eve's question, uncomfortable with the fragments of memory that sliced through with jagged nails.
"Something bad happened and the caterpiller became the butterfly. The larval stage prefered hard mechanics and digital processes. Robotics and cobbled together toys. The butterfly found herself lost in colors and textures. The beauty was too much, even when it was awful and terrible. So I flapped my wings and became."
Molly placed her capped paints in a wooden box smudges with so many colors of paint they had become browns and blacks. "I'm still becoming. I think I always will. The flight may be erratic, but I see so much in it. There is still something to be enjoyed in making a tic-tok, but color is better."