When I was a boy my father gave me a puzzle which had thousands of pieces. And though I never completed it I still loved it all the same. But contrary to most children, as I got older I became more enveloped in childish things like that puzzle. I was a perfectionist. I had every part in its proper place and it brought me a joy that was louder than any shouting or screaming. But then in an equal measure it brought me hate, because one day a piece went missing. I threw the chairs over and shouted at the puzzle that it was an idiot and that it was always the same story. I wished dad was around to help me find that missing piece, which makes me laugh now, as if the puzzle missing a piece was the problem. As if the piece wasn’t clenched in my little fist the entire time.