So the toddling terror stalks the land with careless abandon stepping where it may. All the world awakes and sings, looking over its shoulder and all the world trembles. I tremble too, cowering beneath my comforter cringing before the morning coffee frightened of what the day may hold. In all our tiny measured worlds the child awakes each day, the almighty, indomitable, electric child. Nothing is more terrifying than that which is perfect.
Nothing inspires more fear than the perfect child.
Nothing is so real. I need something, I reply. Something is missing, I complain. But nothing is missing. Living things just grow.