The red hair piece leapt from his scalp and landed on the floor and writhed on the ground - alive with frustration - he kicked it until the hair bled - then succumbing to his wild impulses - he tore off his shirt, climbed up a tree and yelled as loud as he could - atop the branches - into the neighboring hills and beyond - that he was afraid of the dark, afraid of his shadow, afraid of his mother's oven, his brothers bike, his fathers imaginary friends, and his sisters arm chair. There is nothing in his mind any more. All has left - so he tires from his perch- slithers down the tree and slumps lower than the roots of the grass in his well watered lawn.
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