Report, if you have a problem with this page“ He was still immersed in the dim, wet wonder of the folded wings that might open if someone loved him; he still hoped, probably, in a butterfly's unthinking way, for spring and warmth. How the wings ache, folded so, waiting; that is, they ache until they atrophy. ”
Harold Brodkey
From : First Love and Other Sorrows: Stories