I had a dream about all those kids on TV. The crying kids ripped from society and their alphabets with the ripples of gun powder. Their noses were dusted with the thin lining of dust that lays upon gym floors and some had the tops of their heads dusted, I could imagine from clinging to necks of brooms. I saw all these little people rising and falling like popsicle sticks, still colourful and sticky, they smelt of fear and paste and I was suddenly saddened. A wasteland of youth, so far from knowing evil. For evil no longer being a bad dream, a boogie man, the enemy in a video game, or what Scooby and Shaggy so fearful sought out. I dreamed of these children and wanted to take away their pain. For they shouldn't know insomnia yet and I would harbor that so they could move forward and shake hands with the devil later. For meeting him in all his forms is inevitable but if I could postpone that, to unquiver their lips and unwet their pants, I would've. I woke up to another batch of kids being terrorized on the news and wish I could've dreamt away their experience.