Once upon a time, there was a boy who knew nothing.
He still knows nothing. People look to him for answers and he gives them whether they are right or not, because he has forgotten that the world is as mystifying as ever. His heart knows he is still a child: that twinge of confusion when speaking of knowledge. But his head is stuck in this bonkers idea that he has grown up: all these years.
It is unseemly.
He knows what he must do: he walks outside: the cicada din is overpowering in segmented oscillations, and it is afternoon: he stands at the edge of the rock wall: it rained last night and the moss is bright: he looks to where he cut the flame bush out because it is an invasive species and it was halfdead anyway: little red leaves spreading along the ground: beauty without judgment: the shimmering in his heart.
This is better.