The furrowing of his brows gradually ironedas he planted his gaze at the single motherstanding right in front of him. Eyes naturallylingered on her figure, marching from herhead to toe. Never changer ㅡ Youth.At this momentㅡ this very second, what do he want? On the tip of his tonguehe craves for something sweet; crispybut easy to melt. Meringue perhaps? Albeit too fancy, so glamorous with tea.On the end of his fingers? He wants tohold hands, someoneㅡ just anyone thatcan gift him with warmth; for his palmhad frozen, chilled from the previous night. Yetㅡ again.At the top of his head, he wants libertyfreedom to showcase the menace ofhis existence, to offer terrorㅡ to ruinthe already damned. To be memorablefor the things his father couldn’t doㅡhas no desire to do.“Right now?” He asked, lips pressedto each other afterwards. The taste ofthe minty mouthwash he toyed earlier.“I want to restㅡ and seize the day.Maybe read  a book or two, or listento good old music.  I wan’t to do somethings i g n i f i c a n t ㅡ different from my quotidians”