Boys Life.

Walking on my toes down the driveway, trying to keep my heels off the wet things: wormy-looking little brownseed, translucent pods that look like insect wings, giant black ants trooping across the squares who don't notice anything; being careful makes me feel very tall. Green algae thrushes in the shady spots where the light doesn't come through the trees after it rains; between the texture of the cement is another forest, an eighth of a millimeter high. I don't want to step on anything wet, dry, or sharp. What if the wet things are alive?