I’m sitting in the park on an early summer day. There’s a little girl, probably a toddler, running around picking dandelions. I’m smoking a cigarette and drinking straight whiskey from a travel mug. The little girl picks a dandelion, squeals, and does the weird toddler walk to the next one, which is like six inches away. Still, she is filled with wide-eyed excitement and I wonder what it’s like to have that sense of joy and wonder. Dandelion after dandelion, the excitement remains unquenched. Then a large bird of prey swoops out of the sky and plucks out one of the girl’s eyes. The girl begins screaming and I wonder where her guardian is. The bird comes back and tears open the girl’s jugular before flying off again. There is a large jet of blood as the girl falls to the ground. The blood continues to spurt into the air and I have the vague notion I’m missing an opportunity. I set my mug on the bench, clench my cigarette in my lips, and hurry over to the dying girl. I strip off my shirt and lean into the fount, a wave of elation washing over me as I bathe in the girl’s blood. This, I think, this is as close as I can get to feeling what she felt before the bird ripped out her eye and tore open her jugular. This, I think, this is what being a child feels like.
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