In characteristics, nine year old. Body type stocky five. Daly is infinitely small, he is a sprite. Blue sneakers, blue jeans, rolled at the cuff, blue hoodie. And a unique floppy hat. Star shaped with the points with the perfect balance of texture and flop. Blend of white and black hair spills out over his forehead. Big oval eyes and happy mouth. Hands in pockets, fast walk. The path is singular. A routine task passed down through some sort of Sprite hierarchy for job assignments. Take the finished daily, place the paper copy in a message bag, and race along the blue electric highway into the vanishing point. At the designated location the document, stays paper and is placed onto of an enormous stack. The backlog matches the height. Depending on circumstance, Daly might get to see the man’s firm hand reach from above the stack and, carefully with the middle finger, with a flick, grab the most recent paper. If by chance the pile got unsettled, Daly takes the moment to straighten the stack once again. Since the task has been completed, he closes his satchel with the one-buckle and returns to base to await the next call to duty.
Daly is a Kristen Britain Green Rider, he is pony express, but his route feels more like TRON—a highway of light entered from the ordinary world. Everything is confidential and intimate. It’s also irrelevant, unacknowledged, and lost to the ether.
Daly paces back at base; he’d suck his thumb if he was three.
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