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My hair is the longest it's ever been, and I still find it short. I've gone back to the four-eyed me, and though I say I did out of sheer convenience, it's nice to have my shield again. The innocent dragon's breath I knew in my youth has materialized into greater demons. But for the most part I see.

Yet I am jealous. Jealous of the boy with eyes far better than mine. But for the most part he cannot see. I've snuck into his mind's shop after hours, and I'm never sure if I'm welcome. His life is on display in those eyes. Those eyes like glass that the children smudge with their fingertips and fog over with their breath. The glass that-despite the grime-is somehow able to sparkle on a chilled winter's night. I peruse every case, every aisle. The paperback novels, glowing bottles and shelves of dusty memories he doesn't know I've found in the back room he keeps under lock and key. Mostly.

It's like he sees only when he's outside.
"Why?" I want to ask him, "Why so you hide in that shop of yours?"
Why does he think, act, talk; why do the riddles falling off his tongue dance through life the way they do?

But I don't have to ask. For someone so blind, somehow he can see what I crave. He says he can see what I doubt exists. I've searched for so long for the things I believe I've lost, and now someone like him can find so easily? I'm jealous of the boy with eyes far better than mine, the eyes that can see these best parts of me.