I miss myself.
Nobody can bring that one back, of course. Not even me.
He used to make me laugh when everyone around did not, tell me funny stories, select new books (and read them to me).
He used to play the guitar until my fingers were cut by the strings, and then play some more... screaming, too.
He used to do so many things, not so long ago. Repairing instruments, tinkering with wood, metal, circuits...
He run to you as soon as he caught a glimpse.
I don't blame him.
Or you.
It is what it is. He'll get tired of being laughed at, and will find his way home.
Eventually.
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