My second favorite game is to watch you sleep. Any minute you will wake up again with the same toothless smile and we will play another peek-a-boo, my favorite game. You don’t know how lucky you are now lying peacefully in a soft, sterile sheet of cloth inside your crib, inside a home, inside a democratic country. Millions of babies now are having a hard time with the inconveniences of poverty and political instability; from insect bites to unnamable pains only the pitches of their crying can describe. More unfortunately for other infants, they are deprived of shelters to protect them from the punishing sun and the biting cold of night. Each second, a child your size will never wake again. You are so lucky to be here. You are so lucky, I am beside you. Any minute from now, the warmth of our laughter will neutralize the temperature of this air-conditioned room. Moments from now, you will open your eyes and I will take pictures of your face swollen from the nap, your lips pinker. How many children has their faces printed on tarpaulins hanging tall in the wall? How many children has their days monitored by the lenses, their every actions caught on tape? Only a single copy of my baby picture ever survived, and I wasn’t smiling there. When I look at it, I see a bright future for myself, when I face the mirror I only see the opposite. I don’t know if there exists a video recording of my infancy, or my early childhood. I’ll ask my godparents. They say I spoke too early, began to sing at the age of two, displayed a diabolical gift in mathematics and broke one too many furniture. But sometimes, you just cannot convince the world with word-of-mouths. You need documentations. You cannot trust your mother when she tells you how goddamn cute you were. But what more can you ask? You were born in the age of Friendster and Youtube, preserving the memory of your innocence is not a problem. The only concern is: will you turn out to be a wonder boy just like me? I wonder not. Success doesn’t end with talents, your father knows that very well. The only thing that is so wonderful about me is the length of my hair. There is nothing more to marvel about your uncle. While I worry about what to eat tomorrow, your insurance savings rest assured of growing far more rapid than your bones. By the time you are my age, you are already a millionaire and I already have thousands of shiny grey hairs touching the ground. But for the meantime, all you have to do now is wake up and laugh at the invisible joke that I am.