Everyone he met said he ought to be so grateful, because his life was every artist’s dream, and he felt ashamed, as if he had grabbed the wrong coat from a cloakroom and was wearing someone else’s dream. Because all he dreamed about was not being recognized in the street, and not being adult, and about lying on a pier with his best friends and drinking sun-warmed sodas and reading superhero comics. About being no one at all alongside his very best no ones.
