In history as Mr. Frediani babbled on about war and everything, with the lights burnt out in a shadow, my mind drifted off to places far beyond my seat. I imagined someone poking a finger decisively on my forehead, as if there was a red button fixed there, causing me to melt. My inner self drained out of my body's form, and spilled onto the tiled floor. It oozed over to the seat diagonal to me, climbing up the metal bars that held the desk together, colorful and liquid-like, and formed itself back together into a curly haired brunette boy about my age. He had a very Arabic look about him- an oblong nose and thick bushy eyebrows. He wore a plain gray shirt, jeans, and black tennis shoes. He flipped around, hazy, and looked at me with a smile. We communicated telepathically. I asked him why he was there, who he was. He responded by saying he represented my imagination, my subconscious, and everything I ever wanted. I looked at him admirally, and he melted away, returning to my own form. Everything I ever wanted, huh? I suppose that makes sense.
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