^D8^Rutger Walkins^CB^{FIN}

He lived in the land of the wanderers. The schematics are unplanned, only taking another step forward could create them. He took these steps and leaps. He flew through this land, long body wandering through the purple sky, looking down upon the rugged mountains and deepest trenches. These lands were ever shiftin' from color to color, each more amazing than the last. He roamed them for the brief hours that he was blessed with, only to be dragged into the endless, tedious dream they called life.

His dream began on a frozen December night. His mother said she was pulled out of her most wonderful stupor. They would tell him that Momma was on track to becoming a big shot politician. Grammy would look at him with distaste as she explained how Momma quit as soon as her stomach began to inflate. Grammy's cleft lip never held back the cruel words. Bastard was a particular favorite of hers. But Momma never let her bitter thoughts pass her lips. Momma hugged his small blond head, and stroked his short hair, as she stared out the window and daydreamed about a life without a son. His dream began as hers vanished.

As his small blond head began to climb its way towards the sky, Rutger shank further and further into his mind. His face began to mature, cheeks hallowing, and nose hooking; but his mind did not. His childish dreams never faded, the purple beaches and yellow clouds of his daydreams seemed to stick in his mind. In fact, these wonderful facades of his mind became reality. The waking hours were nothing but slurs of grey and boredom, but when he could finally rest, that is when the colors return.

In his dreams,
the trees are blue,
the sky is green,
and Rutger is 
interminable.

Am I awake?

Rutger Schoone.

297.