Mad you may think me, but I am not mad. I simply see; see those things others do not see. Are they mine to see, alone? Or, perhaps I am mad, and it is my madness that lets me see these things. No matter, for I see them, and I know they are real. That is enough for me to know that I am not mad.

             I was a precocious youth. I knew things others did not, a fact which was frequently remarked upon by my parents and other elders. When I was young, my knowledge was greeted with curiosity and amusement. I guessed at little things. Lost your glasses? Ask little Marco, he is sure to know. Lost your keys? Marco will know where to find them. The adults even began to play a little game; each time they visited my parents, they would secret away and hide something, then marvel in how quickly I found it. The game, and I, were referred to as Marco Polo. The adults adored me. As you might expect, I basked in their attention.

             How, you might ask, did I know these things? I always had special friends. Even early on, I realized not everyone could see them. Lost your glasses? Marissa, a girl of about seven, would help me find them. Lost your keys? I would turn to Paulo, a boy of eleven, who would point them out for me. Indeed, they helped me with more than finding things. Everyone thought I was reading before I turned two, but really I relied upon Marissa and Paulo to tell me the words. Even as you read this, know, I cannot read. I have dictated my tale. For, you must understand, though I have been given the gift of seeing everything, I understand only a fraction of what I see. In fact, as you read, I see the man just beyond you, hovering at your right shoulder, arm poised to tap on you, but reluctant to disturb you. I see him, but I know him not. Is he your uncle, your father, your grandfather? Does he love you, or does he come from somewhere to harm you? I know not. I only know that he stands there poised, fingers ready to descend upon you, whether in an assault or an embrace is lost to me.