When I pick up a rock, smooth and ivory white, I like to turn it on its back and feel its wet, dark underbelly. I like to brush off the wetness and find its grooves, and wonder about how much time and weight must have laid upon it. I like to think about how unappreciated the dark hidden underbelly must have felt as it lay quietly underneath, feeling the weight of the transformation slowly take shape over space and time. I wonder if it mourned what it used to be, feeling its original self slough off layer by layer, pushing heavier and heavier down into the deepest part of itself; or if instead it waited patiently, nervous and excited for its beautiful butterfly self to be revealed. Did it save a remnant of what it used to be, locked away somewhere deep down inside so it can visit itself every once in a while? Is it wonderful to be saved or sad to be kept away like a deep, dark, and lurking secret?