The backyard with piles of bricks and stones disarranged about the place according to a boy's will. His imagination dictating that this stone here must not be there where it is but there where his hand must take it.

The look in his eyes when he looks over the property in the ambitious afternoon. A girl's crying once interrupted the look of unstoppability. Her mother elevated her above the fray in her arms. In a long sigh she said that someone always cries.

He thought, how did that pretty girl get her mother to win the war for her. And without even using her hands. The boy built himself a shelter with the bricks and stones from the little girl. Above the doorway he wrote, you musn't cry.