I saw two boys on the footpath today, sitting on the sidelines of a street-soccer game. One was crying, and the other had his arm around him. The boy who was crying had one of those faces that you can imagine won’t change much as he ages—one of those faces that when it’s fifty you will still be able to see the little boy inside. He looked so old and wise: there was not a skerrick of shame in those tears as he looked into himself through the middle-distance, probably not wondering, as i was, if he would recall this moment with his friend in twenty-five years.


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