Sorry, I dont have these sort of things.

His name was Colin, and his name was all he had. His father, a degenerate, left him and his mother at his birth. His mother, died during labor. He grew up alone, sheltered within orphanage after orphanage, going from home to home. The only thing he had to remind him of his old family, was the gift of a silver spoon.

He was good with words. He, even at a young age, was able to manipulate the other children around him to do his chores for him, and was always able to talk his way out of a fight. He was cold and bitter, never getting too close nor too attached to anyone he met. It was his defense mechanism from constantly being uprooted from one place to the next.

He would often dream at night, as he drifted along the rivers of his mind. His dreams were always a stark contrast to his own life. He would be sitting on a comfortable chair, nestled between his mother and father, just watching a game show on the TV, eating dinner, laughing at one of his dream father's bad jokes. He would hate waking up in the morning, and would always look forward to his dreams. He wanted nothing more than to become lost in his dreams. Lost in a world where he was with parents that loved him, with a loving mother and a strong father. He'd never admit it, but he hated that all he had of them were dreams.

As he grew, he developed his ability to twist words more and more, eventually getting to a level of development where he could lie to anyone about anything, and he would be believed. His confidence and cockiness grew as he did, every successful deceit increasing his pride, every lie twisting his mind more and more. He never had any friends growing up, jumping from school to school. He would always get the best grades though, he had many people that he made willing to do his work for him. He was smart in his own right, but school didn't matter to him. The only thing that he lived for was his dreams.

Yet, as he grew wiser and older, the dreams grew more and more fevered. He would imagine his parents in impossible situations, sometimes forgetting their faces, their names; every day that went by, and every night he drempt, his dreams drifted further away from him. As his memories and his dreams left, so too did his joy. He would never smile, seldom laugh, and would always frighten his new foster parents when he was placed.

Not too long after he graduated from high school, he went into a small local college. Even despite graduating twelfth in his class, he was given the honor to speak at his graduation. He still kept to himself, now living on his own thanks to a trust fund he was given by his last foster family. He had learned how to play the violin, and had become a terrific public speaker.

In college, he kept to himself, only ever talking to others if they approached him. He would go to school, come home and study, and then work a small part-time job. He was living a normal, ordinary life, but his dreams continued to fade further and further into obscurity. His words no longer had a meaning behind them, and so he abandoned them. He lived a boring, joyless life, devoid of any interaction with anyone other than himself.

However, his life changed for the better, and the worse, one day later on in his life. It was at his college graduation ceremony where he met a woman with whom he instantly became attracted to. She had no real interesting features about her; her grades were average and her looks weren't any more spectacular than any other woman he had seen in his life, but the aura she gave off, the feelings he felt from seeing her, were entirely unknown to him. It drove him mad seeing this woman on the same tier as him, at the same level of proficiency. But he still couldn't escape her appearance. He became enthralled.

After weeks of searching, after settling into a new apartment building in the city, he had once again found the girl. It was one night, 3 years after they had both graduated, when he saw her again. He was still alone, living a solitary life, cut off from any human contact. His dreams had altogether vanished, he lost all reason to life. His passion was gone, and he now just rode life's current, waiting for the waterfall at the end. He found her on an internet social networking site. He could see from her profile online that she was engaged to a rather wealthy man, and was already pregnant with the second child of theirs. He was enraged. This woman, he could see, was smiling a pure and honest smile. He knew the man was using her, but she was happy. To see the object he became entranced by become a tool for someone else was a thought that disgusted him.

He had never felt such an emotion, such a hatred, at all in his life, yet he couldn't explain why. This woman, he never even knew her name before seeing her profile. The two of them never talked in school, and had never even been in the same classes. He wasn't at all attracted to her figure, her face, and yet seeing her with another man was something he despised.

That same night, he began to write. He had forgotten from the years that passed by that he was blessed with his mothers silver spoon. He sat on his chair, not budging from his computer all night, just writing. Never before had he ever put so much of his own energy into any one thing, any one person. He wrote, and wrote, and wrote, until eventually he collapsed two days later from exhaustion. It was a full day before he awoke, and saw the fruits of his labor.

What he saw before him was, for the first time in his life, something he was proud of. Here on his screen was a narrative of pure emotion and thought, and more importantly, here was the written personification of himself. His own life, made for the better, was before his eyes.

He looked through it, and began to notice several odd things. His words seemed alien to him. He would always describe his foster parents as loving, his schools as educational, and the people he met as his friends. Here was his whole life written down, yet to him this was anything but his life. He stared and stared, trying to make sense of the words spread on before him.

Suddenly, a tear rolled down his eyes as he came to the final chapter. Suddenly he became aware. All that had happened in his life, he pushed away all the things that mattered to him and shut himself away from the world. Here, on the final pages of his story, was one last glimmer of his youth. He smiled and laughed as he cried reading the words. Suddenly, he realized, he was happy.

All the dreams he had missed, all the memories he had cherished, were right before him. His parents, loving from beyond the grave, and his friends, supportive of him despite his harsh nature. His families, all caring out of love, and the girl he let get away, laughing and smiling with the man he could have been.

That night, for the first time in years, he dreamt of his mother, now sitting in bed, reading a book. He looked in his dreamy mothers hands and saw his own book. He looked over her shoulder and saw the words he wrote, the feelings he put down, all put onto paper. He looked over and saw her crying, yet with a grin on her face. He looked at her crying and started to cry too.

The next day he gathered his story, and he began his search. He tried for weeks, trying to get his work published. He was rejected time and time again, until one day, after many defeats, the girl from his past ran into him on a city bench.

She walked up to him, asking him if he was ok. He surprised her at first, asking her if she remembered him. Of course she wouldn't have, that past self of him wouldn't have dared talk to her. He sat there and introduced himself, and the two of them sat together and talked. He told her about his life, and she her own. They sat on the bench well into the evening. She was preparing to leave, but he stopped her, taking the chance and inviting her to dinner.

She appeared hesitant, but accepted. His eyes welled up and the tears rolled down his cheeks. They made plans to talk again at a diner a few blocks away. That night, he dreamed again. His dream this time was of him, laying in bed, and an arm drapped over his chest. He couldn't look over to see who the arm belonged too, but he was happy in his dream. He didn't want to wake up from it at all.

Three nights later, at the diner a few blocks down from where the man lived, she sat waiting alone at a table inside. She had been told that a reservation was made for her, and that the man would be arriving shortly. Thirty minutes passed, and still Colin didn't show. She became annoyed, being made to wait for someone else. After an hour had passed, she stepped outside and began to leave when, after opening the outside door, she saw Colin sitting on the ground outside of the diner. He had his hands in his lap, and a small paperback book between his knees.

She reached over and tapped him on the shoulder, but he wouldn't budge. She pushed his shoulder again, this time getting a small sign of life from him. He looked up, and she saw his face was bruised and bloodied. She bent down and asked him why he looked the way he did.

On the way to the diner, he had been mugged. All his money was stolen, and he had been stabbed in the side. He moved his jacket to the side and she could see a small pool of blood around him on the ground. Her eyes widened with horror as she reached down into her purse to call for 9-1-1. He reached up and grabbed her hand, stopping her mid-dial.

He reached down and gave her his book. He told her that he appreciated her showing up, and apologized for making her wait for so long. He then asked her to read the book, and to find him when she finished. He told her where he lived, then walked down the sidewalk, clutching his side. Tiny droplets of blood would fall from his side with every step he took. She watched him as walked down the road, and when he walked around the corner and out of sight, she called for the police. She told the dispatcher what had happened, and he grew impatient with her when she told the man that she let Colin walk away. She gave the man all the information about him she had.

That night, after giving the police officer that came to the restaurant all of her information, she walked to her home and started to read his book. She would sit on the couch, lie in her bed, while she was at work even she would read that book whenever she wasn't busy. Every chapter felt so powerful, every page filled with emotion that by the end she found herself in tears. She closed the book and layed it on her table, the tears still falling from her eyes as she laid in bed, falling asleep.

The next day, she walked to his apartment. She had the book he wrote clutched in her hands, a smile on her face. When she reached the door, she turned the handle and found it locked. She knocked on the door, and heard nothing from inside. She looked down on the floor, and underneath the bottom crack in the door she found a tiny key. She put it into the lock, opened the door, then walked inside. She found that the entire apartment was very tidy, but a stillness floated about the room. The TV had gathered dust, the kitchen was cold, and the bed was still made. It looked like no one had been in the room for weeks.

She walked around the room, and on the computer desk she saw a note, with "To You, Woman from College" written on it in bold black marker. She opened it up and read the note he left. On the edges of the paper, after finishing it, she noticed that there were dried and crusted bloody finger prints along it.

The letter told her that if he was not in the apartment, that she was to hand the book out to someone on the street, and tell them that this was the story of a man that lost his dreams, and found them again. He told her that he went away, that he was going to relive the dreams he had misplaced, and forgotten so long ago. He thanked her for the kindness she showed, and for reminding him of his humanity. At the end, he signed the letter, "With Love That I Found Once More; Colin."

As she walked out of the apartment complex, she found a homeless man passing by. She stopped him, and gave him the book. She told the man that this was the story of someone that lost his dream, and had found it again, and that if he wanted to, he could find his own again. He looked at her with a confused and annoyed look, but took the book and continued on her way to work.

That night the homeless man read the book, and when he finished it, he gave it to another homeless person whom he knew. When he finished it, he gave it to another, and they to another, and on and on and on. His book, having been passed from hand to hand, one day wound up in the hands of a wealthy businessman. He was given the book by a small little girl in a park one day, and when he saw it, he broke out in tears.

It had been fifteen years since he wrote it, and finally, Colin's book found its way back to him. He opened the cover, and inside he saw a list of many many names, all the names of people that have read his book, names of people that his book has touched the lives of. He couldn't believe that after all the years his story would've lived on for as long as it did.

That night, he once again spoke to a publishing firm, and finally, after many years, his story was to be published. The editor looked at it, and smiled. This was the very book he read in college that made him put his life into motion, the very book that made him the editor of his own publishing firm. The book of a man with a silver spoon.