The enormity of my desire disgusts me; pollock

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever A breath held, and released: thus was Rapt. He is a golden boy, in color if nothing else. He reflects his mother, though she is something indistinct in his mind, both his parents are. Two forms, a twist of scars on the face, an aching cavity where there once were wings. He comes from a love story writ tragic across the years, and perhaps the story lies imprint in his bones and blood. (We carry in us a blueprint of every horrible thing.) He comes from a man who was once a prince and a woman who was once a prisoner, came golden from their loins and now he walks on legs that sometimes still wobble. He is young, too young to be on his own. But many are, because his story is nothing new, nothing special. The forest that unfolds before him, the towering pinnacle of the trees and the fecundity of the earth – none of it is new, none of it is special. But it’s all new, to him. He takes in the trees with a captivated awe that befits his namesake. He walks through the shadows like they’re sacred. He has no purpose here, only a moment of wanderlust breathed into his spindly legs that brought him here, in his copse of pines, a boy standing gold and alone. A breath held, and released, and thus he stood. rapt