Concerning the Auditions for the School Musical

Walking down my street at half past twilight, one can observe a few phenomena. The excited squeals that erupt from the children who scale the scaffolds like ivy, harmonizing with the nervous mumblings of their parents, and the faint glow of the cigarette that coughs out smoke into the late October air are both little details (buttons, perhaps?) that make up the fabric of my small world.

One boy speeds down the hill leading to my stoop with tremendous speed, and I think a little about where he was going so fast, or if it was just for the rush of it. He stopped abruptly at what must've been his house, hitting the brakes so that his transition from motion to rest was as fluid as the Hudson River.

A pang of regret crossed over my heart for a second, like a loose cloud floating fast over the sun, and I stopped for a second before continuing my quick stride, clutching my many belongings awkwardly to my chest for warmth (I'd left my sweater in the music room in an act of classic character).

When I was younger, tricycles were choice cruisers.
When I was younger, second grade chorus was a choice singing lesson.

I went straight to the big leagues, and my bicycle has been a bit wobbly ever since.
I went straight to the big leagues, and my voice has been a bit shaky ever since.

I seem to have skipped the training wheels stage of both.