No one has actually thought about the Country Kid in months.
Actually, no one has thought about him in weeks. It only feels like months because the blinds are always closed in the impressively tall buildings where everyone works. They live by the command of the electronic bell. They don't have time to think about him.
That never changed things for him. Every morning, he wakes up having to shake the stars off of his head. It is a thoughtless morning process to him now; the stars leave their perches in the sky at the very sight of him so that they can help illuminate his already bright eyes and melodic smile. Tossing his head like a happy wet hound makes the stars tinkle, so that the sound is as welcome as windchimes at high noon on a stale summer day. Most of the stars float back to their places in the velvet above right before the sun can come barging in after he wakes them from their place in his hair. Some, though- they stay on his hands, and in his feet, and in his voice. They stay there because they can't be seen by him.
He never notices. He does his work with the power of stars, spinning notes into the atmosphere for tormented ears to be soothed and agonized hearts to be tamed. Simple notes, with no particular pitch. Even when he trips, or stumbles, those stars in his feet make him graceful. Those mistakes are beautiful because the stars won't leave him for anything.
Everything around him hears his voice and shudders, because it is an ugly voice, but still they hang on invisible strings, waiting for the newest sound from his mouth. Still simple, still misunderstood, and still uncoveted.
No one wants to be him. No one wants the stars that stick to him like thick clothes in some humid city. No one wants his edgy voice that disrupts peace like alarm clocks only a few hours after finally falling asleep. Only the stars come to him, and only the stars make him as huge as he is.
He fills the room. He fills the space.
No one wants him, but everyone still comes to him. He can't be ignored. He's the Country Kid.
He changes everyone, everything. He spins music and defines the universe's elegance. He is a paradox in every way, but no one cares to figure it out. Some can see him, the ones that peek out the blinds of those cold windows.
They sit in their box and they write things about him, because they can see the stars. They can't see the stars in their own places- the city is too big and too bright. Too busy. Too ignorant. Those stars that cling to him are so bright, it's impossible not to see them. They're going to get themselves in trouble. They always do. Yet when they do, and when the Country Kid stumbles, his graces catches him. Somehow, they also are saved. Their spirits fall, and their strength falls, but they don't fall. They stick to his hands and stay in his feet and in his voice. They fall every night from their perches, ruining themselves, getting themselves fired by the Boss, for peeking out the blinds.
And in the morning when he shakes his perfect head, they float back into the black to wait until the next night. The ones who love him stay in his hands, his voice, his feet, his hair. They don't have a choice. The grace that saved them keeps them safe, because the tall buildings and their callous bells sap their strength and make them question why they still shine.
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