A/N: The inspiration from this somehow came from reading a list the compares Drug Dealers and Software Designers, and listening to Speeding Cars, by Imogen Heap – it's my sister's grad song. I've always thought of what GR was like when he was a teenager – and what he did with his time.

___________________________________________________________________

The world is a dark place.

I concluded this analysis on my graduation day. It seemed that it would be my philosophy forever, -- that thought came to me while walking by an alley . . .

Then I heard the music.

"Here's the day you hoped would never come,

Don't feed me violins, just run

With me through rows of speeding cars . . .

The paper cuts, the cheating lovers,

The coffee's never strong enough,

I know you think it's more than just bad . . . luck . . . ."

I backtracked a little bit and looked into the alley. It was too dark to make anything out, so I ventured a little further, out of curiosity. The music astounded me – it was rare today to hear anything but GeneCo's jingle, or some other company ramble. Music is friendly, and beautiful – nothing was like that, nowadays. A few steps farther into the little, gross alley. The music grew louder, stronger.

"There, there baby,

It's just textbook stuff,

It's in the ABC of growing up,

Now, now darling,

Oh, don't lose your head . . .

'Cause none of us were angels, and you know,

I love you . . . yeah . . . ."

The voice that sings it is beautiful. It's of a higher pitch – but nowhere near a woman's voice. It sounded like a really musically gifted boy, about my age.

"Sleeping pills, no sleeping

Dogs never lie far enough away

Glistening in the cold sweat of guilt,

I've watched you slowly winding down for years,

You can't keep on like this,

Now`s as bad a time as any . . . .

[Whoa-oh-oh . . .]

There, there baby,

It's just Textbook stuff,

It's in the ABC of growing up,

Now, now darling,

Oh, don't' kill yourself,

`Cause none of us were angels,

And you know I love you . . . yeah."

A few steps forward, and I can make out a human-shaped figure on a dumpster. It was, in fact, a boy of about my age – he was about six feet tall, and was playing a guitar.

"It's OK, by me,

It's OK by me,

It's OK by me,

It was a long . . . time . . . ago . . . "

A few more steps closer to him . . . he has brown hair. He's the one singing. His hair is long-ish, and hanging in his face. His eyes are closed – he's buried in the music. He's wearing a huge, ill-fitting trenchcoat, and dirt encrusted jeans – he has long eyelashes.

Suddenly – and sadly, -- the music stopped. He'd had a slight smile on his face when he was singing, but now it was gone. His eyes were a pretty, radiant aquamarine – but they're dulled by experiences that someone would just want to forget. When the music stopped, he seemed to age a little, and become a little younger all at the same time. His head moved a little in my direction. A little farther this way – until we were looking at each other. His left eye twitched a little.

And that's how we stayed for at least fifteen minutes—just standing there, staring at each other.

My philosophy changed that day.