He walks down the road with his hands in his pockets. Only a tiny bit high. To the sky. Where the birds fly.
Man what a night.
To be thrown out of the house on his birthday by the woman with the rolling pin. She was always holding that rolling pin. Cooking bread. Cooking bread. Bread for the baked. He is baked just like a cake.
It's cold, but that's alright. Because all around him are little lights. Smoke trailing off of the ends like little wisps of godsends. And the faces, dark, scary, they have nothing to do with him.
Because it's his birthday. At least he thinks it's his birthday. What are all the lights for if it isn't his birthday? And what is this spotlight for if not for celebration?
He stands under the streetlight looking up to the sky, to the lights, high as a kite.
And it doesn't matter that he's got nowhere to go.
Because he's got birthday lights.