These are tiny days of a burgeoning life. There are very kind pockets we droop into when our bodies refuse to go anymore. There are warm arms running with blood of milk and soda and applesauce.

And I love them all. The trinkets of these odd little moments I jingle in change purse of my little mind and I believe this is the sound of the scruffy boy humming on his way to the world.

Let them ravage me and take me. Store me with the slaves of my modern convention and slap me back when my smile refuses to flatten. I shall persevere, I shall take the footholds of a ancient ladder and make little steps to a place where I can claim the breathing air for mine alone, a place where I can lay on my back and leather my heart for the oncoming storm.