The man without a childhood didn’t receive his name from a parent like other people. He created the name, created himself. He had no father figure, no idol, yet something within him loved men enough to foster his existence.
The man without a childhood is aware others like him exist. Some he’s passed by on the street, some he’s congregated with in groups of a few dozen, one he’s loved. He isn’t the least bit like them and yet they’re kindred in their absent recorded youth.
The man without a childhood seldom understands social norms. He makes bits and pieces of what to expect and goes by on that. He bars these ever evolving theories from all but those he trusts with his psyche, lest he encounters someone who intends to shatter him into non-existence.