His life lay before him, a shattered wasteland. He juggled the pieces in his cupped hands, lacking the ability to put them together again. Not that they would fit. Unbeknownst to Lew, pieces were missing, pilfered by the light-fingered in our society.
He sat disconsolately on the bench, in the sun, his head cradled in his hands. Singular, soft tears of despair dripped from his craggy cheek, to fall, unremarked, onto the pavers beneath.
He looked up, with unseeing eyes, into the canopy of the Camphour-Laurel tree, wherein wheeled majestic Currawongs, burbling their song of joy to the tumbling white of the banking cloud.
Overwhelmed by such immensity, and such unrestrained freedom, Lew concentrated on the quick projecting from the nail of his right thumb. If he could but snip that lone piece of skin, all would be restored to right. He would be in control of his own destiny.