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Do not under any circumstances attempt to pet, cuddle or otherwise interact with the woolbabies. If approached, the woolbabies WILL eat your pancreas.
I really need to think myself up a better selection of tags.
At 8:22 on a Tuesday morning Sebastian T. laid down on a sidewalk. He hadn’t planned to. He’d been on his way to the big see-through house where five days each week he’d sit down for eight point five hours to decide which typefaces best convey to the public the merits of dill-flavored cream cheese. Ten times each week he would walk through this alley paying it no attention. There was nothing special about this alley. There was nothing special about this Tuesday either. But his brain had been making thoughts while he walked, as brains do, and then one of the thoughts had been what if he were to just lie down right there on the sidewalk, and then he couldn’t come up with a reason not to. So he placed his portfolio on the ground like a pillow and laid down on his back with his eyes staring up at the sky.
Boy too tiny.
Talked with a friend about the anatomy of hands and realized that fingers basically have a fourth phalange embedded in the back of the hand. Felt like attempting to draw what it’d look like if the tissue between these phalanges was removed. In hindsight this would’ve been better done by someone who knows how to draw regular hands, but I think I can safely conclude it’d look pretty creepy.
As what remains of the warmth of autumn has failed to keep up with the cold, re-frozen scabs of November snow litter the streets. It crunches under the feet of a man who stands leaning from side to side, peering into the mall. Hands splayed across the glass. Slender fingers wandering like the arms of an anemone. The lilac ball gown he wears is creased and threadbare, its hem crusty from years of grazing the streets. When sometimes a passerby looks at him – a visitor from the country or suburbs whose eyes are not yet in the habit of looking away from his kind – the fourth thing they notice about him are his bright almond-tinted irises.
He cranes his neck to see through the shopping crowd, to keep you in sight among the gaggle of shoulders. For a moment you disappear and he whimpers and rubs the backs of his hands, but then you resurface as part of the trickle passing the at this hour perpetually open sliding glass entrance. Standing only a half-dozen steps away he studies the configuration of your face and makes up his mind. As you start heading home, he follows.
Apparently ‘chubby bald naked person sitting down, facing away’ is such an artistically potent theme that I had to use it twice. Hey, don’t blame me! Blame the ethereal muses.
In the picture he is smiling as always. His detergent-colored eyes look straight at the lens and his blond curls caress the gentle curves of his cheekbones. His pupils are wide but only with affection. He told me he was eighteen years. I took him for seventeen, but fifteen is what it says here.
He started looking at me before I started looking at him, but that’s the one thing I can say in my defense. Well, there’s more thing I can say: I’m a pussy-assed motherfucker. No way I coulda resisted. I mean, I can tell a lad to piss off when I need to, but that boy was different. He was, like.. Fuck. Iunno. Hope? I was living my bad trip of a life, getting curbstomped daily by demons – sometimes not even the met’phorical kind – and into it walks a right fucking angel. Shit, it’s even his name. I think sometimes I really thought he could save me. Even quit doing glass for a while. I shoulda worn my jacket more, my fishnets less. Shoulda found a different overpass to hang at. But fuck, how do you turn down a go at redemption?