About the Boy

I am ethereal, almost translucent. I am fragrant with royal blood that transcends time. Yet I find myself transfixed on the secret reels of my memory. I have tried to transcribe these invasive visions, but—

Scrawny boy walking through a muddied field in lime green shorts, and stones in his chest. The real world all vast and brave, but he takes it one step at a time. Closer now, he counts the steps leading him to civilisation, but the stones creep into his bowels and into his throat. Heavy now, it is a defined sense of foreboding; of dread. The boy slips, and everybody laughs. Ha. Ha.

I am celestial, almost radiant. I am descendant of ancient gods who pass judgement no more. Yet I find myself a migrant without land or home. I have wandered this endless road, but—

So-called summer time in ghost town. A shell of a man sitting in his living room, and witnessing apparitions previously unknown. His hands are shaking as he eggs himself to do it. The world stops turning, and everyone's arsehole clenches. The crowd waits in silent anticipation. He floats about the room not knowing what to do, or what to say. Then, nothing. Nothing at all.

I am bestial, almost malevolent. I am but a fragment of maleficent rage that is battling a selfish tyrant. Yet I find myself distant from it all. I have struggled to find answers, but—

Standing in front of a train station, she looks at him with those almond eyes. He stares back in awe. Their lips touch and he feels a flicker in his cold hard chest. Time gallops along as it does, all click and no clack. He does not need her to save him, but it is a blessing to have her in his corner cheering him on. She is comfort, and she is home for this homeless traveller.