Some of us come as studded earrings carved with the occasional crack. As a hairline receding. Shaved to make old age come with ease. As the small hands well kept of young adults to be respected. But most, instead of the stone something more rounded glass perhaps but more precious and delicate. With an eye that has yet to become what it has seen. Washed up. But washed none the less. Picking up scent as a wet towel. But this one was the youth. Just aloof a fool to follow as perhaps the sand upon we stand.