The boy does not like anymore.
He is barely
commenting.
He is so drained as he lifts his fingers,
claw-like
to type one letter after another.
Hit the keys as if they had to be tortured.
Not mine, says he.
And isn't he a selfish boy,
For not sharing the laughters and the disgusts and the causes and the songs and the everything?
He has feelings and he wants to break them
free.
He wants to inform and be in contact
but time is so little
patience in
such short
supply.
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