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a butterfly, fluttering away its final moments. I watch, feeling its life-force slip away, unable to help or console. I am the same as it in my mortality; the life-force will leave me, too. But I am also different, in that I can know and understand, It suffers; I suffer; who suffers more: it or I? The butterfly cannot recall its past, and knows nothing of the processes which rule its life, so just accepts, unquestioningly, whatever happens to it. I do not. I think, I feel, I wonder why, and want to know, and this increases suffering, yet necessarily, so that, in facing it, it may be overcome.
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