Excuse me, but real musicians use butterflies. They open their hands and let the delicate wings flap once. The disturbance ripples outward, eventually producing

Excuse me, but real musicians use butterflies. They open their hands and let the delicate wings flap once. The disturbance ripples outward, eventually producing a freak weather event which sounds out an awesome cacophony carefully honed to activate homo sapiens' most dormant primal instincts for rage, love, mourning, and triumph. Anything less is a crude shortcut afforded us by our decadent culture of consumption.