Writing in the third person.
He does it to distance himself from himself.
As a child, on an English summer holiday drenched with rain by the sea, his desperate parents conjured up tickets to an end-of-the-pier show. From out of the shuffling holiday-maker-evening dark he stared in awe.
The magician towered resplendent in black tuxedo, blindingly brilliant white shirt, and silky crimson bow tie. His long fingers blurred and danced. They teased tiny-heart-beating doves to flutter from his upturned hat and open sleeves. They shuffled and cascaded cards. They disappeared objects and recovered them from behind the ears of eager witnesses. They summoned a long-limbed, jewelled princess from the curtained wings and folded her into a tiny box. They thrust glittering, breath-takingly sharp swords into her confined space.
The boy watched her emerge unscathed, her pale skin still perfect under the bright lights and he longed to be the sorcerer, wished…
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