He shakes his head, stays outside the shop, his friends go in, he watches, their father gave them money, his mother can’t afford it, she’s on allowance, his father, he rarely see’s him, got nothing. The jeans are designer, she coo’s over them, high on the hips, her friend is lucky, her father is a lawyer, they can afford them, the stuff she would do, just so she could wear them, got nothing to trade, only her skin. The mirror is overdosed, has seen so many reflections and poses, cutie, sly, sexy, serious, mean, devious, drugged, but in the end, there’s nothing, they fade. What lasts for ever and what is temporary, it was the old scripture. He’d a friend, a small friend in a corner, and it had been tough, coping without a father, a world bent on social networking, it was not easy growing up, even the games they play, thumb twiddling, and a host of older ones addicted to the adult world and the threat it carried. Avoiding the weirdo’s was not easy, so many heads already filled with stuff only horror writers used to conceive. At least his friend would develop character, and that was something. In suffering or sacrifice, there was the chance of developing, so if he thought he got nothing, he was getting something, just didn’t realize it, amen. AND, he had a host of angels looking over him, got nothing, think again smiled Solomon, the existence of God Most High was no longer a doubt, and there was more to come, amen.