There against the firelight late last night, he sat. No one knew his name (no matter), but he wore a silvery chain about his neck and when we sang he must have heard and broken through those branches.
The listener adjusted his collar.
Our chords and melodies stoked the flames, sparking din and havoc in the boy's mind--he was moved to furious tears. Not sorrow nor happiness, but sheer confusion. He cried through our chorus and wailed through our song, tears breeding anger and tears, until finally he stood up, eyes burning with our words and disappeared.
He wept for the countless wisps of smoke, rising from burnt wood as unearthed memories, withering away as his childhood was--as he was. He sought the firelight and song, because he remembered, and you said he appeared but he was there all along, dying endlessly among the yellow tips of fire. The scorches on his face, what you call maturity, etched eternally in his gaze, is the cost of experience. And you last night, as many others, watched him burn and twist, watched the forging of crassness, the stripping of emotion, and necessary sacrifice.
The man adjusted his collar once more and disappeared amidst a glint of sunlight.
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