You're there. Sitting. Breathing. Breathing in all of the fibers of the world. Your world. But where am I?
I am but an enigma that you dreamt up.
Dreamt up during your days of idly hoping for something better--a world far from the worn out shoes and last month's bread, which has since gathered mold.
That bread doesn't bother you much, but your father's creeping hands do.
Hands that overwhelm you in the night.
In the shower, when you just came home from school so excited about mastering long division.
Hands so quick, both men would've blushed in the Burr-Hamilton duel.
But what can you do?
So instead, you go back to carefully tending to those worn-out shoes, eating your stale bread, and dreamin' of that girl you wish God would've made you.