Flowers and Fists

An eyelash that just floated into view, painted and beautiful, fluttering like a butterfly, rushes, rushes by - past the oblong of the office door, humming along the hush of the corridor - and has, now, gone.

From its whispers, from the darting flashes of dark lashes, I, Fist, seemed to detect a hint of something that went like this:

"So what, Fist, if a finger lingers above a button, ready to remove a city? So what, that the face of any other may lie broken by a fist in a second? Between the thighs do failing lives remain fecund, and the city, full of fists and fumes, is equally bounteous with blooms; why write only of that, and not of this?"

I'll ponder it.

"Why not buttercups and roses, the dandelion and tulip? Why not run through the market with flowers by the fistful? To bring life into loveliness by what you think, surely is more than a turn of phrase, or a technical trick?"