Dream Marks On My Pillow

A tattered raggedy pillow laid on the ground, it's off-white color mostly covered by a striped pillow casing. Dirt painted the smooth, fluffy headrest. Such a small, trivial luxury. One most took for granted. But not the boy; to him it was a diamond in the rough. Worn by the sweet nebula of dreams, not the ground he slept on.

Under a bridge in the city of Caracas, there lived a boy. Or, at least, that's where he slept. A small, quiet dark-haired child with a cat that would follow him around everywhere. Many wondered why the boy would sleep under the bridge, but none ventured further than their small questions.

Everyday he would get up, make his bed, and go off to the old tailor's home, the cat trailing behind him all the while. The cat would usually stop at the tailor's and wait until the boy came back at the end of the day.

Contrary to belief around the area, he didn't mind the rocky terrain around the underside of the bridge. What he did mind was the tenacious chirping of birds waking him up every morning. If he had a pot, he he'd probably throw it at them. He might have been eight but he believed in a strong arm. But alas, the boy had no pot to throw at the birds. Nor a bed to call his own. Not that he often acknowledged the latter: the boy understood that he didn't need a soft cushion to dream upon... it would've made dreams much sweeter, though.