once upon a time, a boy was innocent. His heart sang for no apparent technical reason, and light played with his eyes. The stars moved through the heavens (or the heavens moved through the stars) just as they had for a million years past, just as they would for a million years future. Nothingnew had not been invented yet, so everything was interesting—the sound of old radiators clanking in the winter; the intricately carved ballusters lining the stairs outside his room, each worn and gouged in slightly different ways; the smell of brush burning in the spring; the fantastic way sunlight once played on his ceiling, reflected from a puddle in the street.
A boy was innocent, before he knew words like these, when he could still wail unabashedly, before he learned how not to cry, once upon a time. And after tears no longer fell, nothingnew was able to invade, and covered the world in its brand of gray, and blurred details considered unimportant.
He is no longer near the start of nothingnew, where the boy could lift the edge of the heavy shroud and peek beneath to make sure the world he knew was still there. Now as far as he can see in all directions, the world he knew is covered by the thick canvas of nothingnew.
Is it real, the world he knew once upon a time?. Or is there only nothingnew?
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