[justify]


Old hope got stuck in your throat
Wound its way around your neck
And caused you to choke
Old hope made a rope
That held you tight as the chair legs broke

( N A M E ) Jericho Mykonos-Moreno
( N I C K N A M E S ) Question; The Nameless Nothing
( A G E ) Seventeen
( G E N D E R ) Male
( D I S T R I C T / A R E A ) District One


When they found you hanging in the wood
You said at least now I don't have to be kind or good
I'll be cruel and I'll be obscene
Tear out my tongue
Because I've been redeemed

( H I S T O R Y )

I'm real lost. Not the pretend kind when you turn the wrong street corner, but honest to Ripred lost — the kind you don't find your way back from. I'm like a keepsake so misplaced you'll never find it again, because you tucked it away under a loose floorboard where you thought it would always be safe, not knowing a rat would come along and carry it away, proclaiming how it doesn't belong to you anymore. Only, I'm the rat too. I misplaced my body, misplaced my soul, misplaced my memories — my thoughts, my past, my future, and all the now, then, here, there, everywhere, nowhere, flaws of my pathetic existence. It's not so much that I can't be found anymore, you see, it's that there's nothing to find.

There's a reason I call myself The Nameless Nothing. All the honest humanity in me was stripped away and there's not a whole lot left, you see, just some patched up remnants that barely remember how to make some use of my calloused hands. In the past I didn't have to try too hard to make myself useful; I had a wild, haphazard kind of spark that made everything effortless. That's why the Moreno family adopted me, I suppose, because of that seemingly unbreakable spirit I had in the face of District One's community home. Despite being a dirty-faced orphan whose quieter moments seemed weighted with a sense of loss so heavy it could tug my eyebrows together into something like the aftermath of a high-speed collision of tectonic plates, I remained undefeated. That's what the world looks for in a Victor, but I didn't think about that back then. I just wanted to follow them to a place called home that would be filled with the kind of family I thought was gone for good.

Oh, and it was gone alright. My new brothers and sisters were nothing like the ones in my memories — but I held onto the hope that the future could somehow become the past, didn't I? I could see the tiniest hints of potential in my Moreno siblings and tried to wheedle out a moment of camaraderie whenever I could, so stubborn and yet rarely successful. For months, maybe years — I don't know; I can't remember those days quite right anymore and I prefer it that way — I made myself see what I wanted in those kids. I've always been creatively inclined, re-imagining the world into something a little lovelier, as if my whim could make the truth of it all cease to exist. When I looked at the Morenos, I wasn't looking at what they were really becoming — what we were becoming — but instead I was superimposing those too quickly fading memories of what a family is supposed to be.

Families take care of each other, but that house had no intention of bringing us up with such idealistic thoughts. My smiles were all too often met with scowls... or worse: the edge of a knife, the weight of a crowbar, the tip of an arrow. We weren't so much being trained as Careers as we were being raised to be Victors. The house itself was an Arena, filled with weapons and hostility, and fighting was the only family bonding time we knew. To be fair, it brought us closer together all right; closer to each other's hearts and throats than I'd ever thought we could be.

I missed having a sister to hold my hand when things got too tough to bear on my own, but in that household the only time my hands ever met with those of my siblings were as fists. If I'm being entirely too honest, it got to the point where that felt like enough to me. Those nights when their knuckles would kiss my cheeks as I laid down to sleep were the nights I had the sweetest dreams. Their names may slip away from my memory now as much as my own name has slipped away from me (the sounds that stay with me from my time with the Morenos are nothing so sweet or harmless as a name), but I will forever remember the deceitful warmth of their hands and the angles of their elbows. I wanted their arms to bend around me, yet they always insisted, "No, no, Jericho, we can be so much closer than that." They knew how to prove it too.

In their way, they were targeting my heart just as much as I was aiming for theirs. I wanted a place within them to call my own and, technically, they longed for the same from me. More literal, but close enough. Everything was about close enough back then. We Morenos, we were entirely too good at that; at being close enough to kill and close enough to death. The goal was just to never get too close, but when you're plucking kids out of the Community Home, you're taking in children who already know all too well that life doesn't follow rules, no matter how differently anyone tries to tell them. Experience defeats theory every time. The Morenos knew that when they adopted us though, rolling their eyes at the way the rest of the District trained their Careers as they patted the neglected tangles of our hair while making promises we wouldn't understand until it was too late for us to shake our heads and say, "no, no, no."

By the time I realized I should have been screaming like a hostage desperate for escape, I was too caught up in my Stockholm Syndrome to do much about it. Maybe the Morenos didn't love me properly, but just because I was expendable to them didn't mean I could throw them away so easily. No, it took much more than common sense to send my feet pounding the pavement in the opposite direction of their overly ambitious faces. In retrospect, my definitions of words like much and more are almost funny, because most people would use those to describe things so much bigger than—

—than a pencil? That's because they've never paid attention to what a heavy weight something small can be in their hands. They don't know the true weight of lead and wood; they don't know the true weight of blood. I know. I never wanted to know, but you rarely get to choose the lessons other people decide to teach you. Once I realized what was happening in that house, something more than all the fighting and jealous desperation, I tried to separate myself. I became very good at being overlooked. While the other kids showed off, vying for our parents' attention and praise, I taught myself how to fade into the wallpaper in the least threatening way possible. They swung their fists and knives at me less and less, and while there was a part of me that missed the cruel contact of their hands on my cheeks, it was nice to be able to sidestep their attacks as if we were dancing a predictable waltz, as though we really knew each other. I mimed their violence when I had to, swinging weapons as if I meant it, but I was always careful to only cut the air. Or at least I tried for always.

There was a point when I became so unnoticeable that the other kids began to realize I was stealthy. One night I went to bed a weakling who wasn't worth their attention — a pitiful regret that the heads of the Moreno household hoped would be weeded out by their experiment in natural selection — and the next morning I woke up dangerous. Suddenly shameless blades lashed out at me every time I turned a corner, scratching a vicious map into my skin and giving me no choice but to follow their thin red paths. Each bark of pain I responded with seemed to draw them closer, the death-rattle cries of a prey balancing on the edge of defeat. However, it all hurt so much more deeply than their knives could reach. They wanted the attention of our parents, but I wanted them: brothers and sisters. I wanted the sound of their lazy breath in the early morning — that heavy swish of sound that hung in the air before any of us had pulled ourselves from our beds; the immediate reassurance upon waking that we were anything but alone. I never wanted to face the truth that they'd prefer me gone, but that choice wasn't mine in the end. In that moment, I had nothing like a choice.

I wasn't miming their violence anymore; I was fighting for myself, suddenly excruciatingly aware that no one else would. As my knuckles crashed into their jaws, there was no denying the lack of affection in the touch of my hand to their faces and all the lies I had been telling myself slipped a little further away with each brutal collision of skin on skin that was so much the opposite of a comforting kiss to the forehead or a pat on the shoulder. I hid myself away as best I could in a forgotten nook of the house where no one would see me crying and discover that I was even weaker and more vulnerable than they already knew. Hiding was all I had left and for a short while that spot became my sanctuary, where I could go and lose myself in imaging all the ways life could be different, but—

—but I was perpetually paranoid, skittish and jumpy, terrified that someone might discover me and take away the last thing I had to hold onto. My fear wasn't unfounded. Only a day or two later and I was sought out, huddled into the tiny space while drawing in my sketchbook, my shaking hands twisting the lines into visual knots that mimicked the frustration tangling my thoughts. My fingers were holding the pencil so tightly that it was poised to snap — and I'm sure it would have, if my attacker had come for me just a minute or two later. If he would have waited a little longer then it could have been just another tussle... but it wasn't. The knife had barely nicked my shoulder before I flinched and ducked away, swinging my arm back in automatic retaliation, forgetting all about the pencil still gripped in my fist.

I had never been one for weapons; when I was forced to fight, I remained unarmed whenever possible. A punch or a kick can only do so much damage and the sight of bruises on my sibling's bodies nagged at my conscience so much less than the wounds they gave me, stitched up and aspiring to be deadly. So the feeling of the pencil's point burying itself in another person's skin was not only unexpected, but unknown to me. It must have caught him by surprise too — all the Morenos knew I wasn't one to mess with swords or battle axes — because I wasn't the only one frozen in shock at the sight of my accidental weapon jutting out of his belly, blood seeping through the fibers of his shirt to paint the kind of picture I never wanted to be responsible for.

His blood was the most ironically beautiful shade of red I have ever seen. I remember watching it spread and it must have done so quickly, but it seemed like slow motion to me. When I reached out to pull the pencil free, he flinched away and I realized that he must have thought I intended to drive it deeper into his stomach, to finish what I didn't mean to start. Witnessing the fevered panic in his eyes, I suddenly doubted my own intentions and the last of the lies I told myself about we Morenos being anything like actual siblings disappeared, taking a part of me with.

Snatching the pencil free from his abdomen before he had the opportunity to move away again, he yelped in pain and made a half-hearted lunge at me in retaliation, but I was already fleeing. One foot in front of the other — and repeat — it was just me and the unexpectedly heavy weight of wood, lead, and blood that I held in my hand. I wanted to run away from him, from the house, from what I was terrified I was becoming but too naive to realize, but no matter how many blocks I ran, I didn't really feel like I was leaving anything behind. He wasn't dead and I knew the wound I had inflicted wouldn't be enough to kill him, but the thought that I could be enough to kill him was more than I could handle.

At some point in my frantic sprint through the streets of District One, I realized that the pencil in my hand was scraping against the fences, brick walls, and lamp posts I passed by, as if marking out my path in case I changed my mind and wanted to return to that vicious Arena house. The frenzied line traveled side by side with me like a weary companion — broken and stuttered, the dull gray possessed a subtle shimmer that reminded me of the kind of terrifying metal it was pretending to be earlier — and seemed to mirror me with more honesty than I was prepared to be confronted with. However, since I found myself unable to look away, I decided to look closer, despite knowing I wouldn't like what I was about to find.

It wasn't just the pacing of my footsteps that I could see reflected in the graphite, but everything I was. Simplicity. The desire to give something of myself to everything that agreed to touch me, regardless of how rough or unforgiving the contact might be. A lack of discrimination between one place and another. Some type of misguided ability to declare that I could stubbornly find an existence for myself anywhere, no matter how little I belonged. Tracing my fingers over the line, I knew it was even more than that. Tiny fragments of wood caught in the ridges of my fingerprints, splinters catching in my skin and staying there until I realized that I wasn't just the line, but the pencil itself. As it was being drug over all those rugged surfaces, pieces of it were being broken off and left behind, mercilessly worn away until less and less remained. Looking at the stub of a pencil that remained in my hand, I couldn't remember ever identifying with anything so closely. It was exactly what had been happening to me my entire life.

Like the pencil, there wasn't much of me left. Maybe I could have followed the line back and tried to reclaim all the pieces of me that I had lost — isn't that what other people would have done? — but I couldn't bear the thought of what I would have to confront if I were to attempt such a difficult feat. The Morenos. The Community Home. The family I had lost. Going back seemed unthinkable, which meant I had only one option: Accept what was lost and continue on. Only, when I looked at what remained — of the pencil; of myself — there wasn't much there. It wasn't until my eyes caught on a fleck of blood staining the wood cradled in my palm that I decided it might be for the best if I left myself behind, if I pressed that pencil to the brick walls once again and kept going until it was completely gone.

With sick determination, I forced my hand to hold the damaged remains of myself that pencil to the side of the building and began to walk once more, one cruel step after another. The scraping noise of it being worn away stays with me to this day. Sometimes I dream of it when the dark gets too quiet, as though it really is the sound of nothingness swallowing me whole. I didn't stop — couldn't stop — until the only thing that was left was a battered fragment of metal bent around a tiny, half-used eraser. My fingers were raw and bloodied and my legs were exhausted from sprinting halfway across the city (from the posh part of town to the dirty streets of the slums), but the only emotion that remained within me was a faint and distant jealousy. If I was the pencil, then where was my eraser? Where was my ability to take back the regrettable marks I'd left on the world?


Save my blushes for the grave
No shy glance, no coy restraint
And I won't hang my head
And I won't repent
Won't face the wall and count to ten

( P E R S O N A L I T Y )

That night, I slept exactly where I had come to a stop: The end of the line. I had followed that pencil as far as it could take me and I might have never moved from that spot again if it weren't for Ender and his gang. Having been huddled up against the door of what I thought was an abandoned building, I was jolted awake when he opened it and my battered body was sent tumbling inside, past the barrier I had declared for myself. Sprawled out at his feet, bloody and bruised, I must have looked like something too pathetic for even Death to bother with. After what I'd grown used to waking up to in the Moreno house, there was no sensation of shock, surprise, or fear pulsing through my veins, so I just lay there, squinting up at him from behind the swelling of a black eye and the lingering haze of exhaustion. He didn't seem surprised by me either and I began wondering what kinds of experiences must have caused him to grow accustomed to the sight of a half-destroyed wreck of a seventeen-year-old boy.

Even if he had been malicious, I don't think I would have had it in me to fight against him, but luckily for me he was nothing of the sort. With a weary sigh, he simply muttered something like "better get you fixed up" and helped me to my feet, lending me his shoulder for support as he led me to a derelict excuse for a bathroom. All the cuts and gashes I had received as going away gifts from my Moreno siblings were wrapped up in bandages and band-aids. Despite the sharp burn of disinfectant and my shameless, but silent tears as Ender stitched up wounds that were even deeper than he knew, the grimacing twist of a forgotten smile still twitched across my contorted face. I don't think he knew it was there, but I did. I remember feeling guilty, having spent the night damning myself and certain that I had no such rights anymore to things like —

— was it happiness or was I really so unfamiliar with reasons to feel gratitude? Whatever the emotion was, I knew it must be too good for me, but it had been so long since anyone had taken care of me that I wasn't about to push him away. Still, when he spoke up to ask — "So, what's your name?" — I didn't have an answer to give him in return for his kindness. He had been inspecting an axe wound carved into my forearm, a couple days old and clotted with crusted blood, and I'm sure that no matter what he was used to seeing, there still must have been some part of him that wondered how a kid like me managed to end up with that. Would he have believed me even if I would have had the words to tell him? It took him a minute to realize that a question he thought was simple was actually anything but, finally looking up from my damaged arm to inspect my face and finding where the real pain in me resided. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, as if wordlessly repeating his inquiry, but I could only stare blankly back at him, my lip quivering with uselessness.

My name? The thought turned itself in circles within my mind, looking for something to settle on, but found nothing. I didn't want anything to do with the name Moreno anymore — or so I tell myself — and Mykonos seemed like something even more distant than a memory. For a moment my jaw hung loose, my tongue lolling with dead weight in my mouth as it tried to wrap itself around the name Jericho, but the syllables felt too foreign for my lungs. I had lost too much of myself and hoped knew there was nothing left of Jericho Mykonos-Moreno; whatever fragments remained were scattered in the streets, ground into brick walls and glinting off fence posts in a dull metallic shine of graphite residue.

Ducking my head to break eye contact and running a hand through my hair in anxiety, I fixed my sight on the cracked floor tiles that were newly flecked with my blood. The sight of it and the viciously raw memories it refused to let slip from my thoughts caused my jaw to clench tight with something that almost felt like defiance. It might have been easy to say the defiance was for his question, but I knew it was for myself and maybe even my status as a human being. I had decided I wasn't fit to be a person, so what right did I have to things like names or words? When I looked back up at him, I tried to be relentless, wanting to look as soulless as I had judged myself to be, and maybe at first I succeeded. That was, until I saw my blood all over his hands and a length of bandages hanging loose in his fingers. He looked... concerned? In any case, he pulled my arm back and began tending my wounds again, utterly unfazed by whatever expression I had presented him with.

I started crying again and this time I didn't have the excuse of a needle's pain digging into my skin. Sniffing pathetically as repressed sobs were cut short in my throat, transformed into percussive clicks and little spurts of gurgling non-sound, I just sat there, watching him take care of me and wondering how much longer I would have until he stopped. For once, I was glad for the wounds cut into my skin. They must have taken hours to patch up, but I still found myself wishing there were more. Even now, I wouldn't say I've gotten used to the way he looks out for me, but that day was something else entirely. New. Unknown. Impossible. When I think about what I might have become if that house really had been abandoned, this terrible shaking begins to weave its way through my muscles, because without Ender I might not have been able to repress my Moreno instincts. I was so unfamiliar with compassion by that point that I probably wouldn't have realized there was an accidental cruelty embedded in my bones until it was too late.

Ender gave me some alone time to finish crying out my sorrows without feeling self-conscious or like I ought to have been holding something back in an attempt to preserve a fragment of my masculinity. He also gave me a room in that house — a place for me to live. It was completely vacant, just four water damaged walls, some grimy windows, the wooden floorboards, and a cracked ceiling, but I felt safe when I stood in the middle of it. Looking myself over, I couldn't find a single hint of damage; every cut was wrapped up tight, like a child tucked into their crisp, white bed sheets at night. For once, I felt like a kid who had thought the world was going to end because he fell off his bicycle, gruesomely scraping his knees and palms across the pavement, but whose father had come to pat his hair and reassure him that, "No, everything will be okay. I promise." Maybe part of me really did believe things could be okay again, despite what I had convinced myself about Jericho Mykonos-Moreno being gone. It didn't matter either way, I suppose, because even though I didn't know it then —

I had lost myself, but found a home.


Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten

( A P P E A R A N C E )

When Ender brought me a pencil a few hours after fixing me up, my heart began to race as though he had presented me with a sword or a glaive. "You're mute?" I just stared blankly at him, feeling as though my pupils were blown out into the dull umber of my irises as the edges of the world turned fuzzy and distant. "Can you write?" Within me there wasn't even the slightest intention of reaching out to take his offering, but he pushed the pencil into my hand anyway, either unaware of the way I cringed against it or willfully ignoring my reaction. "Your name, at least?" Shaking, I lifted it up, pressing the sharpened — too sharp — point of the lead to the wall of my new room. To say that I didn't want to would have been something far more than an understatement, but after what he'd done for me, I didn't have a choice except to try.

With a panicky rat-a-tat-tat, the writing utensil stuttered against the white paint, scattering little dots of incoherency around as if hoping that might be enough of an answer. Each ensuing tap tap tap rang throughout my lanky body, until my hands were fists and my eyes were instinctively scanning the room for an escape route. It wasn't until I accidentally locked sight with him that I found myself frozen back into stillness, remembering that I owed a kind of debt now that trumped everything else in my life. My name? I don't know what it is anymore or if someone like me even has one. So I wrote the only thing I could: a question mark, shaky with uncertainty and as accurate as anything.

Forehead lined with the kind of heavily etched creases the young only possess when their soul is living life too quickly for their impressionable bodies, the pencil dropped from my hand as I looked at the answer I'd scrawled out not just for Ender, but for me. My new sense of self sunk in slowly, but deeply. Despite the stains and cracks that covered the walls of that room, they still looked so white to me. As blank as a new beginning... or a fresh bandage. And there, in the middle of all that empty nothingness was me — a nervous graphite line of indecision. Ender stayed as silent as me for what felt like a long time, but maybe the wait wasn't anything at all. A minute must feel like forever to a newborn, because it literally is. When he finally spoke up again, I couldn't help wondering if this felt something like him waiting for nonexistent words from me. "Well, you're a real Question." I realized his hand was on my shoulder, reassuring and yet so incredibly difficult for me to understand. "Goodnight." It wasn't until later that I realized Ender had just given me not only a new name, but an untarnished identity. Jericho was gone, lost to time and tragedy, but Question wasn't anything at all. Yet.

I was terrified. Even though I was attempting to declare myself as something close to nonexistent, the persistent voice of history still whispered to me about the infinite number of ways everything could be messed up all over again. For days, I shut myself up in that room, curling my ever-thinning limbs up against the door to sleep — that good old Moreno paranoia doesn't pass so easily, even now — and watched the spot where the pencil lay unclaimed on the floor, as though I were a dutiful guard dog. I dreamt of an endless sound of scraping and woke each morning absolutely certain that I was being dared to reach out and reclaim what I had once loved. There was an itch in my hands from wounds healing into scars, some twisting across the surface of my olive skin and other, less tangible ones carved beneath.

Time ticked forward, forcing me into the future as the swelling of my face ebbed, hinting that the following weeks would leave only the most stubborn of yellowed bruises dappled around my thin eyes. My hair grew longer, a neglected tangle of dark brown that curled around my ears, and I must have looked as though I were making some kind of progress, although I didn't particularly feel it. At least not until the day I found the courage within me to reach out for that pencil and try to save something of myself. Hands trembling so violently that I almost couldn't hold on, I pressed it to the wall near the Question mark and began to draw. In the beginning the lines were graceless and abstract, whose mere existence was an accomplishment. Basic honesty was enough; aesthetic reason was too much to ask for, but eventually that began to return to me too.

Sketchy nonsense slowly transformed itself into the kinds of imagery I used to draw when I hid myself away in the most forgotten of places within the Moreno house. Only back then it had been confined to paper pages, whereas in that room it was unrestrained. Free. Mine. Trees grew from floor to ceiling — literally — with roots winding out across the floorboards of their bygone brothers and branches reaching up to stretch across the ceiling and towards the flickering light bulb that hung from its center, ever-swaying in an echo of my movements and daydreaming itself into the sun. Maybe it's the way light skips through the windows to tangle with the shadows and reflections I've mapped across every surface, but sometimes I swear I see those grayscale leaves scintillating and fluttering, as though I succeeded in drawing the wind.

The world outside had never been kind to me, repeatedly reminding me exactly how unwanted I was, but whatever I had found within this house was different. Those old rejections were becoming fine with me now; I didn't mind nearly so much as I used to. I was creating a place I could actually belong to, here with Ender and the other Lost Boys he had found that I would meet once I ventured out from my safety zone, graphite perpetually smudged across my face and forearms, with my clothing forever dirtied by that same, shimmering gray. My bedroom walls became so alive and real that I swore I could walk right into them. I acquired a habit of leaning with my forehead pressed against the drawings, smiling with certainty as the rough surface of tree bark greeted me in return. Those quiet moments steadied me whenever my new surroundings began to feel too impossible, threatening to send me into a panic that maybe I hadn't really found anything at all.

I'm still selfish enough to stay and I don't think that will ever change. There's a cruel part of me that tells me to leave — that I don't deserve this place or these people — and it smirks at me as it does so, knowing I can't bring myself to say a single word in refute. Not speaking or writing, this sacrifice of traditional communication, is a kind of penance. It is my determination to restart my soul from scratch. Something within me broke when I stabbed my should-have-been-but-never-was brother and although the world had stripped me of most of myself already, I didn't like the parts that were left and needed to free myself of everything.

Being barefoot is the one luxury I never denied myself, I suppose, an act of recognition that yes, I am still just a little bit human and this is my humanity. It starts in my toes and works its way up through my body, but you see, it never quite reaches my heart. That's the problem, after all. I've got the entire earth beneath my calloused feet, but I don't feel like I'm on top of anything. Hope is too heavy, so when it tries to sneak in through my soul soles, it can't rise up in me enough to do anything more than tug at my toes. Sometimes they twitch and curl from its influence, a tiny dance at the end of my feet that wants to be something more, but the rest of me is so much harder to move. When I fled my life as a Moreno, I hadn't bothered to put shoes on before running out the front door. They hadn't seemed important at the time (even when gravel was reaching up from the sidewalks of the city to jab at my feet) and they don't seem any more consequential these days. If anything, perhaps ridding myself of that unnatural plastic barrier between the ground and my mortality was what helped me finally find proper footing in life.

I recall having had a blood brother in the days before anything went wrong. He threw my shoes into the power lines one day and I have always remembered that moment. Maybe my biggest mistake was replacing them with a new pair. Thinking back, he might have been trying to warn me or at least help me to keep myself grounded. I thought I found them once, staring up at a tattered pair of tennis shoes tangled in the wires so far above everything I am now, but I had a hard time believing that anything to do with me could be that persistent. Certainly time must have swallowed my shoes whole, just like it did me. If I still owned shoes, I like to think that Ender would toss them out of my reach in just the same way. If losing myself and my shoes caused me to find this much, then I'll gladly continue swapping out the lost for the found. Maybe then I'll grow up to be a Lost Boy with a found kind of life.


Well they tore you down and they tore out your tongue
And they made you kneel
For all the things that you'd done
But you wouldn't cry and you wouldn't beg
You just gripped and tore out your teeth instead

( C O D E W O R D ) Odair
( F A C E C L A I M ) Joseph Gordon-Levitt

( C O M M E N T S / O T H E R )

Question in the Lost Boys plot
Moreno tribute brother turned runaway

Tear Out My Tongue by Florence + The Machine

When they found you hanging in the wood
You said at least now I don't have to be kind or good
I'll be cruel and I'll be obscene
Tear out my tongue
Because I've been redeemed

( S P E A K I N G ) D9DAAD
( O T H E R ) B1C6B4
( T E X T ) 7BA99F
( T H I N K I N G ) 75757D
( O T H E R S P E A K I N G ) 5D4157


I don't have to sit down
And behave
Because
My darling
I've been saved



[/justify]