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When the Morning Comes

His name was Max and he had perched himself, like a gargoyle, on the roof of the building. He knew that there was something wrong with him, but he didn't know what it was. He just knew that there was something beyond what he was seeing, if only he could reach the tapestry to pull it open.

Lately in life he had been living one day at a time, hiding in his bedroom away from the world. It was very rarely that he ventured forth, since his room was like a safe haven to him. On rare occasions he found himself on the rooftop, looking over the city.

He muttered, "What's the matter with me?" And waiting for the the city to answer, he felt that the city was like some entity that was waiting for the right moment to say something profound.

He knew something was happening, but he had attributed that to growing older, since growing older your body goes through some changes.

He had become invisible. Because Invisibles lived.

Max sat perched on the edge of the building. His fingers fiddling with a pencil, twirling it like a baton. He had a sketchbook in his hands.

The sketchbook was decorated with drawings of cities, faces, peoples, and other weird drawings. He began to sketch in the book; dawn was approaching.

"Time to snap out of it," Max whispered to himself.

The morning breeze swept over him like a mother covering a child. After all, he was 11 years old and his whole life was ahead of him.