Concerning Christmas, pt 3

  Snapshot. The eyes of the Ghost boring into his, at once empty and intense, withering and weary. It was a day that had not come. If age brings anything, it’s the asphalt of reality, destroying the simplicity the child presumes of the world, slowly bleeding that intense creative spark into apathy.

  Snapshot. And suddenly he’s aware that he’s awake, conscious, writhed in a scarecrow heap on the bed. He jerked spasmodically upright, hearing the dull glass sound of a tumbler bouncing on the carpet. He rolls off the bed, pulls himself up on the age-worn oaken desk. Fingers brush the pocked surface, coming to a deep furrow, a gash gouged deeply into the wood. He lingers but a moment, then propels himself to the window, now open and breathing in cool fresh air and urban white noise.
  “They were all pretty much the same,” he intones softly. “They were all. . . . pretty much the same . . . . .”