Struck By You

He likes the way his name looks on his brother's Lite-Brite.

He likes the way his name looks on his brother's Lite-Brite. Sharp colors glaring like unending nights filled with autograph hounds and expensive vodka. His ears roar with unheard shouts, calls for his fleeting attention, his half-hearted regard. He'd give it freely, along with empty smiles and backhanded compliments to his "equals". Nothing would be unattainable again, everything he deserves falling right into his lap--eager women, an adoring public and ridiculous paychecks. Chuckling, he smirks at the toy lights, the tiny cylinders of plastic almost perfect in their cheap illustration of his future. 

He blinks. A peg falls out.