There was a little boy, who woke up as a spirit of harmony and verse. He looked out at the world and heard his name on the lungs of a million people as his voice planted explosion in their minds.
But they had not yet exhaled his name nor had shrapnel from their word-blown minds embedded in their sleeping hearts because he had not yet unleashed himself on them.
So the little boy wrote growing, and grew writing: a circus to most of his peers who didn’t know of his dream, or maybe they did; and they enjoyed him because he was so enjoyable.
Soon the little boy was ready, he wanted to solve so many problems, he wanted to have so many things. He sought his parents to use their power, because he thought, ‘They’ll be so proud of me.’ His mother smiled at him and died. His Father…
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