I was five, maybe six years old.

It was late evening at my aunt's place in the countryside. The children had been sent to bed at nine, as they always were. But I couldn't sleep — too wired from the day, from playing, from whatever keeps a small boy's mind running long after his body should have surrendered. I wanted to be in the living room. Not because I particularly wanted to be with the adults. I just wanted to feel a little older than I was.