Welcome To The World Where Dreams Become Nightmares.

"Welcome To The World Where Dreams Become Nightmares." I say under my breath, as I rub my fingers across the dull, old, concrete brick walls. I come across a photo, and my fingers feel the smooth paper. I stop for a moment, and rip the paper of the wall, cutting through the staple. I read it to myself. Len Kagmine, coming Thursday. I groan. It hasn't been the first time a famous artist had come to are town, expecting to be cheered for my an overwhelming crowd of people. But the only ones who actually can afford to go to those fancy concerts are the rich, or the sons and daughters of important people. So, realistically, thats only about 7 or 8 individual people going to see her. Plus, the tickets are expensive. They cost about 56$ per ticket, which may seem cheap, but thats more than most people make in about a year here. I know for a fact my parents make that kind of money every four months, So I definitely wouldn't be able to see her. I let the paper fall into a muddy puddle underneath my feet, and watch the water wash away the ink until the paper is nothing but a blob of black,pink,green, and blue. I then step over it, splashing muddy water around the cracked sidewalk. Even though its raining, its not cold outside. I would buy an umbrella, but there about 7$ each, and I don't have that kind of money. Instead, I grit my teeth and let the cold water drench my skin.

When I reach the small art shop in the middle of town, I examine the coloured pencils, erasers, papers, and paints on display. Its 2$ for a set of coloured pencils. I reach into my pocket, and look into my palm. I have exactly two cents, a lint ball, and a gum wrapper. Angry, I throw the lint and wrapper onto the floor, but keep the money. Its better than nothing. So, hands in my pockets, I walk away from the shop that used to be my joy. I used to enjoy painting, and was quite good at it. My pictures would be featured in art shows, shop windows, and on posters around the town. They would sell for quite the handful of pennies, but that was when people actually have money. Nowadays, its mostly the rich people who can actually buy things that aren't food, water, or the occasional clothing. That's why most shops that are non-food have already shut down. The reason the art shop remains is because tourists enjoy buying the handmade paints, and the rich like to buy paint sets for there children, or relatives who are visiting. As I'm walking, I pass several stands. Then, I reach a stand that looks as if the rain took a big chance out of it. The stand was obviously made from cardboard, and there were weird creations laid out. A small girl, wrapped in a wool blanket, was behind it. I walk up to her. I look at the prices. 1 cent, two cent, the most expensive items reaching to 7 cents. Thats about the same amount of money people make in a day here. Even so, I reach into my pocket, and pay 2 cents for a crappy piece of grass thats suppose to be weaved into a heart. She looks up, smiles, takes the money, and runs, leaving her "stand" unattended. I stuff the weird thing into my pocket, and continue walking.

When I get home, I go into my bedroom. My parents aren't home yet. I sit on my wobbly bed, examining the paint chipping on my wall. Then, I see pictures on the floor. I pick them up, and discover there old paintings. I sigh. I might swell explain everything. Here it comes.