The bitter boy cursed the morning sun, unwilling for another day to come.
He shrugged and stepped back, or perhaps it was more of a step off at that,
And let the spinning whirling planet make its way through space without him.
Alone at last, he gazed for a while at the busy vastness of the galaxy and beyond that into the depths of the universe. Old old light told him tales of things long gone and forgotten, of treasure earned and ill gotten, of sad scintillating stars, of crazed comets touring near and far, and of places where reality frays and where dreams are free to stray.
The bitter boy is better now. He closes his eyes, looks within, and folds the sheets of many hued paper he finds there into fantastical creatures that live love and dream.
See how the feet of the boy, one year older, gently alight.
He is home.
by Robert Lang