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A child is a perfect little thing. The sheet of clay, that amorphous ridge-like face; the pair of large animated eyes under those darting eyebrows, like a lark prancing around the ground singing its tune before a flight; the rosy cheeks, filled with a ginger of spirit ready to gush out and surround the languid air; the pair of legs, always falling and rising and falling and rising, never once buckling under the command of adversity; no, it is not complete. It must first be molded. Trim off the edges, smoothen out the insides, compress the odds and ends, like a cube, into the tiniest compartment. One, two, examine. Is that a nook? Is that a crevice? Fill it up with water. See that rough patch over there? Squeeze it back into the pug mill. Pound it down, throw it flat, toss it up, lay it over, examine. Now take up that hollow abject; it is time for the carving knife. Slice and snip and whip and tip, tear out all its distinctions, polish it to the prime of shininess. Rinse and repeat.

The Opening Line

The Eternal Child

What does it mean to live? Life might be unpredictable, and sometimes we are afraid to take the road less travelled. Following the growth of a boy to adulthood, this story explores the choices one makes, and the sacrifice needed for revival. Like the Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog, sometimes the attempt of mastering nature leads to confusion and loss, and it is only when we step back and let go do we find ourselves and see our true destinies.