Yellow blinds against an already luminescent backdrop. We invite the sun when we desire it. How shunned she must feel. This is protocol. I am allergic to her.
In a jet black room, I now hear stories of people being sun-kissed. I envy the burned. I stand in a black room and I paint neon signs all over it. They say things like, 'hmm', and 'oh'. But they blink on and on like the insides of a bar-sign workshop.
I await the days where the supermarkets collect new glow in the dark inventions from around the nation. I imagine that I could make a whole pool of colors on these walls. Many people say that the last thing that they would want to be is blind. I might have predicted this one for myself had it been a consideration in my mind. I know no other being with my condition. I'm a diaphanous, translucent cream fish with razor teeth at the bottom of the ocean.
It might sound like the dumbest metaphor in the world, the most used analogy circling the earth and lending people handfuls of its prevalence, but the only light I know is the one I sometimes believe is beneath my belly button. I know there is something that echoes the sun out there.
It's the only thing that keeps me warm at day.
