People asked him why he looked so odd. His eyes were blurred as though by a vast length of water, their whites barely white, the irises dashed across the pupil like they were seared into his lids. His mouth was a small hole. His ears were boxes, amplifiers that received sound and sound alone.
Every time they asked, he got angrier. He shouted at them. He was a lone child, standing far apart from anyone else, a fallen, disfigured walnut under the tree that was everything. He yelled terrible things at them, in such projection they shrank back, tumbling across the leaf-strewn grass to the cluster of familiar vegetation. They were cowards that way.
He was not a coward. He stood by, his neck straight and his ears perked and his face fierce like a lion. As a lion his features looked different, proud, not human. As a lion he could be anything, until he returned back to humanity, back to its cruelness and its misunderstood variety. Until he shrank back, a walnut (a seed) ungrown, unflourished, fallen and helpless and scattered everywhere like bits and pieces torn by the wind.