lean on me.

He sat with a pail on his head, beating his tiny fists on the carpet that seperated his butt from the hardwood floor. He could hear the sound of skin on fabric and he enjoyed the thumping sound that he was causing. He almost felt productive; progressive. He almost felt like he was doing something worthwhile. In the end, however, he simply felt like he was sitting on the floor with a pail on his head. And he felt like that was okay.