Serious boy, always with the pensive poignance. Look up, for Christ’s sake. It’s always such a grave concern. Your mouth is dry and your eyes hurt. Do you feel your heart? Is that rigor mortis in the nape of your neck? No. You’re alive. Your brain is firing. Your left arm is asleep. Thousands of tiny nodes buzzing like woolen needles until your hand starts to come to. Serious boy, always with the thoughts of annihilation. Why don’t you get along with the other children? The stars are too many to count. But doesn’t the beam of your flashlight go on forever, reaching into the night sky? Serious boy. Trust.
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