he can only stand so much of this. of anything. he's always got his limits, and it's always just a matter of time before he reaches them.

so in the meantime, i sit with him as he creates grandiuer statements of prophecy on three by four sheets of paper. (he's been drawing little men. long ones, squat ones, alien ones. everywhere.)

i walk with him when he feels the trees call and pull and tug at him from that one specific window. (he stares for hours and i watch the tendrils of his curiousity get caught in the fluttering of the leaves.)

i let him use my head as a colander for his multitudes of tattoo ideas. (he fancies a bug collection all over his body. honey bees and spiders and ladybugs and scarab beetles.)

i hold his hand when he, all of a sudden, is a little boy again. (ten years old with all the knowledge of the universe, but with none of fortitude to hold it in his large, gentle hands.)

and, right now, he's a house cat with six or seven tentacles. but later on he will grow wings. (i will have to resist the urge to clip them off in his sleep. i have a cage that's just his size...)


an: dipping my feet into the water again. (: this started as interesting, and ended as creepy. i dig it.