…How do I not collect village butterflies? Sometimes with momentary difficulty; lapses of watching the senses, which will spin their alluring lies if not kept a constant eye on… Fortunately, there are also dogs, cows, pigs, etc… and one realizes that the butterfly now, in a blink, is a dog, cow, pig, etc. As you well-put it the erotic impulse is a very selective perception: selecting one's own immediate pleasure in a smell, a sight, a feeling, a thought, etc. If, along with this, however, one sees other things: for example, the dog-cow-pig-etc. in the butterfly; or a body slipped out of that impetuous organ - the skin - or a body decaying, dying, or dead; or being presented with a local dose of VD, being the cause of all the pain and suffering of child-bearing and child-rearing, or being beaten or killed by a jealous boyfriend, an outraged brother or father, or a pious scourge of dirty monks; if one also sees in those beautiful eyes the black hole of ignorance and misery, the hard life, the pains, the regrets, the false hopes, the real hopelessness - one can feel compassion, yes - but passion? And whence eroticism? (Gee, it was here just a second ago!) The flicker blown out in the fresh, cool breeze of another perception: mindfulness. Also definitely useful is the fine strait-jacket of the robes, vows I take seriously (or atleast serio-comically): village butterflies don't flutter about monks - a greater relief by far.