He led his body to the direction of the air, skipping thoughts. On a road, he spoke to the wind as his lungs rested. He needed no identity or faith to find himself. He didn't believe in love and his desires were shaped. He was taught to wake up when dreams conquest reality, and reality was the most beautiful, the most wished for.
His days weren't numbered, the sky was infinite, and the universe had no king. In the city, secrets were celebrated. He was on his way. Every night, he closed his eyes on his awareness, his thoughts and insanity. Every morning, he washed away his sleep.
There was no lost or found. No homeless, victims or left behinds. When he got to the city, there were only voices. In every corner he heard a song. At mountains, there was heart break, followed by melodies.
Night was his family; he belonged to the dark. His father was a mountain and he had once told him that some stars are made by us, they follow us and find our way, and here, they were all his. He was never lost.
He needed no happiness to show him beauty. He learned a lesson at every sunrise, loved his emptiness, and had no battles to fight. With a dim flickering sight and the words he used to mend, he was complete, like love in a street lit apartment.