[Photo:
Ink on white surface | A.P., 2009]
His
hair had no color. His bicycle still had training wheels on. His name had no
vowels; nor consonants. His dreams were not projections of memories against the
back of his eyelids; they were the truth. His days could not be measured in
hours, minutes, or seconds. His past could not be narrated; his future could
easily be foretold—his present? He still counted using his ten fingers. He had
become what all heroes end up being: a full stop at the end of a clumsy
narration.
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