when a creature begins to emerge from its chrysalis there is a point at which it is neither one thing nor the other, not quite grown into a new identity nor rid of the old. its wings are folded and sticky, its colours hidden. whether it will emerge in shades of emerald and lapis lazuli or the colour of mud is yet to be revealed.
it is that long, still, moment of waiting that fascinates me utterly. the suspense of waiting for beauty to unfurl.
DEBORAH
CHRISTIAN
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