His hands were fluttering birds; paper-thin skin stitched together with cerulean veins clung to bones, accentuating the already unnatural length of his fingers. They hung at his sides, writhing in a nervous agony - sweat glistened on their blushed palms. Those hands held the moons of Neptune. "Where are you going?" I asked, a soft echo.
The young man's head turned and he pulled a sad smile, "Oh, nowhere, really."