The scrawny white boy sat on the tree stump, head bobbing from side to side, yet never raising above eye level. The short boy liked to keep his head lowered because subconsciously he felt that it gave him an edge. He was short and looking people in the face always made him feel vulnerable, as he had to adjust to other people's measures. Plus it would discount his only real claim to legitimacy, which he garnered by surprising others with choice words of unlikely wisdom, if people could see the confusion in his eyes. They would see the illegitimacy.

A little tune buzzed in his head as he cocked his body this way and that, following the beat. His posture denoted creativity, yet he was timid. He kept his hands cupped, covering his mouth and nose, eyes focusing with intensity before relenting again. The beat continued like a continous bloodstream, and he blew air out of his mouth, allowing his lips to vibrate as he rattled out a bass heavy sound. In his own head it shook. Changing tempo now and then, his lips would purse together tightly to pop out quick pips and peeps of higher pitched pockets of air. His hands gathered the moisture that escaped his lips, and this comforted him because he was able to keep it all close to himself. It was so close to himself that he could not be ashamed of the odd, or the unsightly. Plus no one was looking.