The air rushing past his head caused a few sparse cow-licked locks on his head to tremble. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself at the simple bliss. So simple. He lifted his head and sat forward in his small, hard, metal school chair, sighing. The wind through the window behind him blew still at that strong pace that ruffled his hair and made his head feel suspended. Held in bliss. So simple. He looked down at his small metal and plastic desk. The names “Lisa” and “Joe” had been carved into the pale top with a blue pen, a heart had been angularly carved in the same fashion in between. He ran his fingers over the scratches, then lifted his hand and looked. His fingertips had been colored by the remainder of blue ink in the deep gouges engraved in the plastic surface. He stared at his hand and wondered what sort of pen could actually carve away that sort of plastic without breaking and exploding across the surface of the desk. Maybe he’d ask Joe, or Lisa, or whoever had written it, if he ever found out who they were. He looked over and spied the orange and brown square tissue box sitting on the teacher’s desk next to him; he reached over and plucked the fluffy white paper that was blooming out of the top like a morning glory at dawn to wipe his stained fingers. The next tissue sprang forth as the previous was torn away, and spilled over like water from a fountain. He wiped his fingers, and though the tissue became stained as well, it seemed to make no change on the navy tint of his fingers. He rubbed a little longer, then gave up. He crumpled the stained paper and tossed it over the corner of the teacher’s long brown wooden desk in a smooth arc that lead it to bounce off the far side of the gray plastic waste paper basket and back into the chasm for which he had aimed. He couldn’t help but smile at himself and this small accomplishment that really meant nothing; just that one moment, that single stitch in time; one fragment of blissful thread, shining out among all the other dull moments of the day. He looked back at his desk, or rather the medium sized paperback that lay there crazily open, all the pages sticking up and askew. He flipped through the pages and found his place again. For a moment he sat there, trying to remember what had just occurred in the story. Finally he recalled, the lion was closing in on his newly found and frightened prey, though only in time to look up and spy the clock; simple white face with a thick black frame, thin black numbers, and simple black hands, ticking away the last few seconds before his freedom. He quickly dog-eared his page in the book, there was no time to go rooting around in his old and worn cloth pack for a slip of paper to save his place; to momentarily rescue the hero from certain death by the jaws of a hungry lion. For a moment he sat, eyes closed, taking in all he could; soaking up the rays of bliss which radiated throughout the room, reflected off the being of all present yet unnoticed by all, save he.