Deep in the heart of the concrete jungle, a green traffic light flickers into existence in the midst of all the harried madness. Countless faces shuffle from one side of the road to another as horns blare in annoyance, ever in a perpetual rush, distracted by the world they live in.
And there in the blurred smear of forgotten faces, one boy pauses. He's an odd one, often
shunned by his kin as he was thought to be spacey and whimsical.
He's a dreamer, they sighed.
He's a failure, they sneered.
He had a skin of paper and wood and tears of ink. He lived and breathed words, he rebelled in the stories they whispered to him in the dead of night. He was a mere vessel for the voices that echoed in the drowning expanse of his mind. He pursed his lips, mentally storing away a sprig of an idea that had sprouted just then. He would write it down later, another paper pinned against a heaving wall, overflowing with ideas.
People rush past him, some throwing back curious glances before ignoring him.
The light turns red.
He's alone again.