All six fingers brush against the embossed text, wondering at the symbolism behind letters and numbers unfamiliar, studying the shapes, studying the combinations, but with no grasp of depth he slowly touches the fire, and at the end all the drowning children in the world can only touch a part of the twilight twists and crevices of those fingers, diving for the light in the flame, drying at the touch of the only thing they've known. My, how he's grown

These are the twilight twists of fate, the random chance, epistomological romance will take to flight to pardon hate, and in the end we'll all berate. Fly horrid, fetid, feral wings of biological circutry, like a duck with no soul but infinitely more complex, you'd like to think. Connect at the neck, four hours, take a drink, and all that's left is the girl who sings and the boy who preaches for peace and love, one effigy with veins and one fool with a heart. Complete the circut, and all ends well, the children never grew apart, still he strains, still she sings, still they mourn for everything.