ezra lacey / d7 / cb (fin)

His eyes drink up the milkshake skies until the colors overflowed and then blackened to a starry night. Within the dark spaces that bordered the stars, he finds comfort like he would in a dark room and from the yellow, spidery legs of each star, hung his prayers and dreams.

It's cool in Ezra's atelier. Thousands of unfinished sketches, all splattered with thick graphite, sway from the breeze that's rushed in through the opened window. Watercolor pots, some empty and some brimmed to the edges, rest on shelves.

Nothing pays attention to the boy sprawled over the hardwood floor. He hears no sound, except for the bustling district beyond the bricks of his room. 

He'd have to think about what to do for the monthly rent soon, but for now, Ezra browses idly through a pile of letters, most dog-eared and all holding the six words:

It's both his father's and mother's handwriting: dark like thunderstorms scribbled onto paper. They have always been storms. Sighing, he rises onto his two bare feet, striding towards the window with the letters in his hand. Ezra stares out, hoping that someone or something would catch his eye while throwing the letters out for the winter to take.