The kid is scared of a balloon, runs bawling while his sister bandies it unkindly, keeping after him. The bang inside it lurks. It likely chuckles if you only knew a way to let it get out bit by bit. He doesn't care about a thing like beauty though you couldn't call it beauty. Not exactly. If it wasn't quite so full of that expletive which, on uttering it is left so little limp and total death, it could be pretty. He isn't sure he hates it more inflated and explosive like a big bird nudging at his nerves, or its disgusting aftermath, slack, slick and tattered. So he screams to see it swell and then he sobs at its collapse, a waste of breath. This is the boy the rhea bit from in its grill. It bruised his soul. The gorgeous stalk of stuffy mop and snake of neck; the glare swung with the hooded hook. How could such glorious presence break with ceremonial ? They traded glowers, and swapped, perhaps, offences, and the kid escaped with tears.