If we muffle the world with our palms over our ears and we shut our eyes so tightly that it hurts, so tightly that we gaze backwards into the abyss of our minds to see lightning streaks of synapses against the darkness, then are we kids? Yes, if we are blind and we are deaf, then we are children.
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If we gather ourselves into walls of solid muscle and sinew and hold to our toes so tight to keep from breaking apart, making ourselves as small as possible, then are we kids? Yes, if we are small, then we are children.
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If we wail with effusive birr and fall asleep in drunken lethargy, tired from waging tantrums on the world that couldn't care less, dipping our tongues into an exotic sludge of idioglossia, then are we kids? Yes, if we are voracious for attention and childishly indignant, then we are children.
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Some days we get by, but Mondays are spectacularly disappointing.
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