Have you ever felt the wind playing posessingly along your neck?

That way it tickles the fine hairs. Of how just for a moment you are given the impression that you've been touched, that fingers have traced a line. . . is it some phantasm or something else entirely? Some intricate thing, faint wings, or maybe a passing wisp?

This is the feeling, the emotion left behind once you have been acquainted with Paper Lilies & Porcelain Butterflies, an impression as been left as though you have been touched without truly knowing by whom. . ., yet just for a moment there is a wondering...