FLAVORD_BLEACH

I feel like he knows he's different. He knows that the world rushing in front of him is not his own.

Surrounded by the "brightest" students in America, whatever that means, he sits in his chair and draws. 23 years old. I'm not sure he even graduated high school. In front of him texts of Plato, Faulkner, God, and Kleist swirl. Does he have the capacity to understand these works? Whether he can or not, I am not sure, but their is something in his eyes that realizes that there is a level of understanding and thought that he is unable to partake in. As he slumps lower and lower in his chair with each student he eyes reading or holding a book, he falls into himself- into the markers and colors on the page in front of him. He seems intelligent enough to understand that he does not understand, and that is the hardest part of all.