"We're all dying together," said the kid who never says anything.
He was sitting under a bright red maple tree, clean white bark at his back. Each word was filled with silence. We watched him as conversation of heaven and hell slowly crumbled. He wore a lumberjack shirt and soccer cleats and he stopped juggling my train set and looked at me, realizing he had actually opened his mouth.
"Well, some people die faster than others, I suppose. And some lives are lived alone."
He was sitting under a bright red maple tree, clean white bark at his back. Each word was filled with silence. We watched him as conversation of heaven and hell slowly crumbled. He wore a lumberjack shirt and soccer cleats and he stopped juggling my train set and looked at me, realizing he had actually opened his mouth.
"Well, some people die faster than others, I suppose. And some lives are lived alone."
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