I won't tell you his name yet. I won't tell you even what he looks like. But every time he would put his hands through his hair, some of it would fall out, and when it did, he would roll all the loose hairs into a small, disgusting ball. He knew by the rest of the small, disgusting hairballs on the shelf of his very tiny room that he had not been outside in seven days. For he only seemed to make a complete circle of hair when he had completed a day. No more, no less. See, I won't tell you what he looked like at all, for he probably looks far too much like me, so much so that I wouldn't feel comfortable divulging his story without some separation. So, given the many variables and the general health of the narrative, I will now pretend he has a completely different face, which I wouldn't reveal anyway. As the opposite of him might reveal the truth about me. His hair, though, is a black that almost veers on blue. When his dear best friend Taxi, a girl with dreams that seemed only to punish her, lay on the concrete floor of his tiny room at night, a room given to him by his employer, she asked only that he hang his head above her so she could imagine the stars in his hair. She said it looked like a void, like an endless night sky. The kind of sky that does not require distance or a yearning desire to up and leave their whole life behind. But a sky that felt like a brother. She had seen the sky only once, and even then, it was daytime, which she vehemently hated. Daytime was not good for either Taxi or the boy I am referring to throughout this story, whose name I will not yet reveal. Largely because it insists on showing things as they were before the jump.
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