erymantheia:

Whenever I press flowers in my poetry books, I don’t know if I kill them or make them immortal. Both, probably. We pick the prettiest flower, kill it first and then release it from its mortal nature, from its juices and scents. And what is left is their finest form, which cannot be rotten or molten. But it cannot be anything ever, actually. It cannot feed a bee,or bless the soil with its dead body. This is the price of immortality.