They'd bang chairs together and only write standing up. They'd paint their face with peanut butter and let the dog do the rest. They'd dip their fingertips in hot candle wax until their armies at hand were sheathed in the finest helms. They'd read every book backwards and never stuck their fingers in their belly button for fear of squashing tiny universes that might reside there, thinking maybe this universe is located in some other belly button belonging to a like-minded boy or girl. They'd walk on their hands sometimes to give their poor feet a break. They'd hollow melons and pumpkins to wear on their head, reenacting unborn realities. On their best days, they are alone, watching life with an unbelievable electricity, the very embodiment of light. They enjoy striking matches only to watch the flame licking oxygen with gusto to its quick end, living like most people cannot. When they grow up, they want strong hands and wrinkles to prove they earned their long life. Words escape them sometimes, so they fiddle with gears in their brain like agile fingers plucking a string instrument that does not exist yet. On their saddest days they imagine the clouds and the stars are long lost friends who can feel full by one notion. The notion they can send messages to each other through the winds, unrecognized by the humans who look up at them. They declare their love for the sky and all that reside there daily. The love is thickly hanging in the atmosphere waiting to rain down on the life that dwells below. They think, one day soon, the love will grow in the chaos that no one created and words will define.