So there's this boy.
There's this boy, and he's dying.
He's dying and he knows it, and he writes song after song, extracting the lyrics and melodies and the life from him. And it hurts, but he stubbornly persists, going through the last phases of cancer, feeling it raw and red, without the comforting film of an opiate...all so he can continue in this frenzy of creation, and give, give, give everything he has left.

crescere. I can see it, the notes and ideas and thoughts blooming from his fingers, voice, and heart. Scrambling to put themselves in order before his innards collapse with the sheer weight of every syllable
every note
every moment.

He's changed now. his mouth is stretching wider and wider, the tumor widening, expanding, an infant child that sucks him dry..
imagine, on your last limb, you drag yourself up the stairs to the living room. Maybe to be alone. Maybe to see if you could.

And you see thousands, no, tens of thousandsof paper cranes. Saluting your death before you knew the end was so near.
What would that moment feel like, seeing your entire future laid out in front of you just like that? With the bent paper, crackling, as if they were stealing your last breath away? Vivacious coloring, it hurts his eyes, and the parasite in his body rejoices…

He walked back down to his room slowly and quietly, this fifteen year old boy, not wanting to alarm his parents.

and he died.