he's thinking of ditching

he's sick of writing the punning titles, sick of the sadness, the seriousness, lips puckered up like someone cramming for ebtanas—he was thinking of himself, years ago—and thinking i can really nail this if i worked hard enough, he doesn't wanna work hard anymore, all the hard work made ebtanas boy a very dull man, sitting on top of the roof with his sejarah text book, looking at all the other RT boys playing football on the sandy pitch behind his house—oh what he would've killed for the fine golden powder of sand on the boys's feet, gold that will turn to black tributaries when they pour ice cold water over it, from bottles taken from his fridge, the only fridge in the neighbourhood. but he didn't kill anything. that was the point. the roof, his whole house was like a gigantic fence, so big no one could see it was a fence, he was sitting on. he'd read a bit, "jenderal urip sumoharjo bertanggung jawab ...," then his eyes would jerk up off his book and towards the direction of the latest excited scream in front of goal. "no, rumpun's too good for that kind of cross." he struggled hard to get the best of both worlds, when all along what he wanted just little pieces of. just a taste. he ended up with nothing.