Alone, as it started, as it should be. Into his hands i pass, gently. His sand seeps into my eyes, gritted and foreboding adventures await me. 18, the number of adulthood, but never yet have I felt more a child in an adults world. Judged as a mature spirit, that still heaps milo with milk, and i sit, as the last hours of my childhood roll swiftly away, tumbling, slipping through my open hands. It pangs me with a sudden sadness that, I finally an adult, have no constrictions to surround me, only a number of roads, on which to start my adventure.