The letters of the alphabet came in. They toppled upon one another, chatted amongst each other, and eventually fell into one giant pile at the center of her mind. They kept the child from sleep the entire night, seeming to ask her to listen to the shadows' story upon the ceiling of her room as she laid softly under the covers awaiting rest. The scenes on her ceiling were formed by lights of cars that zoomed away outside. She could see everything from under her blankets. What did the man in that last shadowy car do? Why did he weep as he drove away?

The painted man, covered in colors hidden by darkness, shot a quick glance at his own pile of letters in the back seat as he drove. They were different from the young girl's. They all shrugged against each other, grew weary from life, arms crossed and glasses falling down their noses as they sat. Fatigue stroked their heads like death does yours when it greets you into its arms, holding you like a parent does a newly born baby. "You have really done it this time," the letters said to him. "I know," he thought back to himself.
Snoozing and snoring, barely keeping the driver alert enough to finish his journey, the letters sat disappointed in him. Never again, he thought. Leaving it all behind, he thought, crushed, and crushing his daughter.