"Dear Mom I'm doing fine,

You'll always be on my mind.
You asked me what I wanted to be,
And now I think the answer is plain to see
I wanna be famous 
I wanna live close to the Sun
Pack your bags 'cause I've already won
Everything to prove nothing in my way
I'll get there one day
'Cause I wanna be famous
Na na na na (strum) na na na na (strum) na na na na na na 
I wanna be
I wanna be
I wanna be famous
I wanna be
I wanna be
I wanna be famous..."

Lean, pale fingers brushed over the last string, letting the smooth note ring through the chilly air. Small white lights dotted the inky black sky.

He remembered that time when his Mom had taught him to tell the difference between a star and a planet.

Stars blink and flicker.
Planets don't.

He rested his head against the cool bench, letting his mind be taken by darkness that swept over him beautifully, letting him dream of something he'd lived his whole life to reach; but never quite getting even a taste of it, really.

Pale, snowy eyelids fluttered open, their immensely long eyelashes brushing against the hoods of his elegantly deep-set eyes. Strange, dark pupils attracted attention from every gaze that met his. Dark brown ringed by an even darker shade cast shadows over the whites of his eyes, making them look absolutely wild, exotic and terribly beautiful.

Doe eyes.

The pale, lightwood guitar rested on his left thigh, giving him the warmth, comfort and love that he'd never grown up with. His hands ran over the smooth wood that was chipped and slightly weathered in certain places. The guitar had been with him his whole life, after all.

Not to mention that his orphanage had nearly burned it to ashes the moment they discovered it hiding in his secret, makeshift cupboard (that was basically his clothes stuffed into and around the guitar deep under his bed).

He closed his eyes tightly once again, taking a deep breath before getting off the bench and forcing himself to get back to the orphanage.

They'd skin him alive and throw him out the front door if he ever broke curfew.

But sometimes, just sometimes, he wished that'd happen.

He'd rather be free and untied rather than slogging for a few grains of rice and a chicken leg in that suffocating prison that was full of old cat ladies who each had about ten cats named Arthur. And it was, in all honesty, not funny at all when an Arthur is lost and an unlucky soul is chosen to find it, considering that nearly all of them looked identical to each other with greasy yellow fur and beady black eyes that said Tell Grandma that I ate the canned sardines left out on the counter, and you're dead meat, .

Yeap.

Definitely better.

But like always, he slowly trudged through the damp mud, sand and pebbles, kicking some off onto the pavement before slinging his thick guitar strap over his shoulder comfortably.

Playing the guitar usually took his mind off everything else and shut him off to the whole world.

Today, that was a teeny, tiny, teeeeeensy mistake, though.

He got blinded.

Forever.