A Sunset Couldn't Save Me Now

" ... Does it have a lot of numbers and such in it? " The Little Prince gave a short scowl, " Why do you have to read it? "

Grown-ups like numbers. When you tell them about a new friend, they never ask questions about what really matters. They never ask: ‘What does his voice sound like?’ ‘What games does he like best?’ ‘Does he collect butterflies?’ They ask: ‘How old is he?’ ‘How many brothers does he have?’ ‘How much does he weigh?’ ‘How much money does he have?’ Only then do they think they know him. If you tell grown-ups, ‘I saw a beautiful red brick house, with geraniums at the windows and doves at the roof…,’ they won’t be able to imagine such a house. You have to tell them, ‘I saw a house worth a thousand francs.’ Then they exclaim, ‘What a pretty house!’

With a great squeaking and squealing of neck joints, the Tin man glanced up. His face, as always, was practically unreadable; stiff and cold and sullen. Boq had long since learned to utilise both his reputation and his curse to keep his expression this way. It suited him best, he thought. Like this, he could very easily slip into the persona the public wanted from him; relieve himself of any blame. 

The man's face was so cold. It sent shivers down the little boy's spine. Still, he pressed on. In vain, The Little Prince reached over, trying to grab the oil from the man. He could tell the metal man needed help, even if he refused it. This is what friends did, right? They helped.