A blackened face floats in orbit, strung with plastic medals and yarn trophies for battles he never wanted to win. The jaw strains upward, as if hoping admiration might taste better this time, while circuits weep down his cheeks in organized despair. Around him, the soft debris of overachievement—pompoms, pins, fabric stars—cling like barnacles to a man sculpted from performance. He’s cosmic, yes, but only because no one taught him how to just be small.
