He couldn’t be sundered from his dreams any more than a shadow cut from the frame that casts it. They were his midnight strolls. Every forlorn footstep took him closer to learning the poem that was his existence. If he could hold the words in his head then — maybe — his skull would weigh enough to tip forward, a jolt so strong that he remembered how to fly.
There are people that glow; and there are those who cast a darkle of greatness, dust collecting around their outline. They were kindred fools in search of respite from a lazy reality. Both wanting a truth to be etched onto the back of their necks, forever marked in imperceptible ink.