Sonny sits by his window and thinks to himself, how it's...

Sonny sits by his window and thinks to himself, how it's strange that some rooms are like cages, Sonny's yearbook from high school is down from the shelf and he idoly thumbs through the pages. Some have died, some have fled from themselves, or struggled from here to get there. Sonny wonders beyond his interior walls, runs his hands through his thining brown hair.