Sparkles

A young boy, Harold, plays at Grant Park with nobody. His nanny looks from afar, watching clouds pass.

Harold was playing with a toy box, just a plain toy box. It did nothing. It didn't twirl, it didn't spin, roll, laugh, fly, sail, grow, talk, hark, no actions occur. It stays a toy box. Harold holds his box out of sight, for only him knows of it. Though it brings about nothing in physical action this box is magic.

This box is hollow wood. No buttons, no zips, no doors, no gaps, no windows. No way to contact indoors. But with the touch of Harolds hand, magic occurs.

Things transform, a world of contrast. Harold is not solo, Harold is happy, A transmogrify world Harold is in.

This thing in his world is rapturous.