[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.