He’s small. Very, very small. And he blames no one yet for everything that’s broken and everything that will fail him in his life.
And the crass, dim-witted mentality of the mob? He sees only friends and intersting faces.
He wants to sit with you and serve you imaginary fruit he grew himself. You, or anyone. Let him love you, even if it doesn’t make any sense. Make way for him, please. At least just leave him be.
