When the sky was much darker and the grass was much greener, I met a boy named Phillip. He was a good boy. Never ran. He had legs but rarely used them. He had no eyes, no tongue, no arms. No ambition. He was a Scarlet Ibis type of boy and I felt sorry for him. Not a sort of pity party but a sort of unjust absurdity. My upstanding fondness led me to him on the stormiest night of the year, for I feared he couldn't fend for himself. My industrial hand crippled by his own, I took him in. Laying him out to dry only prolonged the mummification he'd begun the day he was brought into this cruel world. He didn't make it through the night. Though in my heart of hearts I know it was the elements, I still blame myself for his passing and sometime later; he has seemingly remained in every raindrop, tear drop, and glass. Soon after, I met Phillip 2. He was the juxtaposition of Phillip. The mouth of a sailor. Eyes like Justice. His legs didn't work. You see, I found him alone in an antique store. He was a lonely baby boy drowning in Elvis memorabilia. I had to take him away from that terrible place. I felt like I owed Phillip. Phillip 2 deserved a shot at life. There is no life when you're crippled from the waist down surround by the pelvic thrust king.