The Boy Is Dead

The boy woke up. It was early. His alarm had summoned him out of the dream realm and into another realm which was characterised by its grey haze and dully lined clouds. The window provided an excellent view of the towers, of black bin bags, and the city buzzed and hummed, with the sound of engines and power drills. The boy waited a moment, held his device which revealed the time, and seeing as the time was not so jeopardising, ignored it entirely until such a jeopardising scenario would arise. The device held him in its supplemental light, covering in place of the shy sun, and the people in it’s universe existed in a state of perpetual happiness, or perpetual knowledge, and they never left, and they never stopped. The boy could not quite live here yet, he was close, but would need some short time to arrive at the glorious destination in which these people resided. And so for now he would settle and be content in peering through this luminous 7 inch window, a window he could press his face against and not worry, for he could see them, and they could see him and speak to him, and they would tell him stories and they would show him the way. He would at times try to return the favour, make conversation even, but he knew that they had achieved so much more than him, that they were too preoccupied in their success for someone who had not yet reached such an elevated stature. The boy stayed, eyes fixated on the wonders through which he could experience just by looking through the window, and sometimes he would peer through another window, showing him those who were not worthy of his status. Through this window he would snarl at them, as a guard dog does when he senses an approaching impostor, and he would speak to them, reminding them of their position, and teaching them a lesson or two about why they should change themselves, providing examples for those weak ones who resided in the echelons below his standing so that they too would be able to reach his level, and peer into the same window of brilliant hope. After a time the clock lurched forward, as the cost of the window was paid not in cash but in hours. Those on the other side of the window would take these hours as due compensation for the pleasure afforded to their subjects to view them, and to be fortunate to know them in any such way.

The boy rose. The boy washed himself. The boy consumed. The boy consumed. The boy dressed. The boy exited the large grey brick laden tower in which he had spent his time asleep. The boy travelled. The boy consumed during his journey. The boy entered the large brick laden glassy tower. The boy pushed keys, he pushed keys and pulled figures, he pushed buttons and pulled light into his eyes. He had coffee. He consumed. He left this tower. He consumed. He returned to the tower. He pushed, he pulled, he strained, he sat. He pushed, he pulled. The boy completed his payment to his master after a number of hours, after which the master provided the only thing the boy needed. The boy took this and consumed. The boy needed sustenance, so he consumed once more. The boy entered a hut filled with bright lights and loud sounds, and the boy consumed. The boy for a brief moment entertained the company of a girl. The girl did not wish to be entertained. The boy left the girl and consumed. The boy returned to his tower and his quarters thereafter, and continued to consume. The boy closed his eyes.

After many hours the boy woke up. It was early. The boy wished to return only to the dream realm. The boy is dead.