A boy. A young boy with the constellations on his shoulders and untasted freedom below his feet. A scared young boy. He bravely places one foot after another in the direction of destinations unknown but only of his own volition. He seeks so much yet needs so little. The walls around him are old, dust-laden and high. They protect him because the world’s shown him, time and again, that no one else will, not truly, not without selfish motives. Sigh. A beautiful, scared yet brave young boy. Can you tell him a few things? Please. Can you tell him that the winds will carry him to places his heart knows not that he wants? Can you tell him the universe inside his head is so delicately precious and so unique that I think it’d be my consequence to paint it in words? Can you tell him that the crossroads he is at is no crossroads at all but the brink of uncaging the soul from the metal monstrosity it was born in? Can you tell him that the emptiness in him echoed in me? Can you tell him that in his eyes I saw constellations that he wished to sketch and that I wished to write about it as he did so? Tell him that Utopia is as real as this world and its multiplying ignoramuses. Tell him that I see the wings on his back and that fire in his step. Rage, good sir, rage against the dying of the light, embracing each new tomorrow with all that it has to offer. Tell him I’ll sit outside his dusty old walls and sing him Hey Jude when the world gets too much to take. Tell him to take care of himself but not because no one else will. Give him a soft kiss on the forehead and tell him again to take care of himself.

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