The children of the street, they play the roles that the street reduced them to. The two tall boys watch over the gang. They are the dispensers of the glue, they are the ones who do the beating. The bodies of the smaller children resilient little recievers of discipline. They bruise and heal back up again out here on the unforgiving street. The fiber of their being originating from whatever resources the street alots them, even out here life persists and a heirarchy is formed. The children of the glue in your garden. Learing at you through eyes unlike your child's. Your garden gnome, a noose aroud his neck, hangs from the tall dark haired one's wrist. They lick their silver glue-stained lips and salivate over the delicious food in your refrigerator.