DREAM ON FICKLE CHILD
Admonitions administered ad nauseum.
His tiny hands are folded on his desk like a good student in a prayer pose. A model student praying for more education. But while he gives the appearance of politely listening to his teacher, every couple of seconds he snatches glances at his dictionary which hides on his lap.
Adoptees adore adumbrations.
"So remember to get your parents to sign the hot dog day form. You will not be able to buy any hot dogs unless this piece of paper gets signed by one of your parents. Is that clear ?" He speaks to the class as though they are mentally handicapped deaf children learning English for the first time. This is the image that passes through his mind as he looks at the large hairy oaf who claims to be his teacher.
Aeronautical aesthetics affect agencies.
Things have been going very differently than expected. After a lifetime of daily visitations to the same fantasy, he has suddenly found himself in the body and world of his ten year-old self. But beneath all the towering and booming figures of adulthood he has lost his nerve. He doesn't write a letter to the Prime Minister requesting a scholarship to the top university of the country. He doesn't write an award-winning novel. His plans belong to some far off world that is now nothing but a fading memory of a faded reflection of fuck all.
His hands are smaller than he remembers but now they are folded in front of him. Attached to the rest of him by youthful arms. His memories search for physical connections to a foreign flesh
Agape's agates aghast agnostics.
"And now we're going to line up, but remember to walk towards the door slowly. If you cannot do that we will start again."
He thinks he might be going insane.