300 words entry eight .Maybe.
Because, you see…I am
It’s a haunted house and it has chosen to haunt me. I can see it now in my mind, waiting on the snow, making me feel like Russia. I want to bleach my hair to champagne.
I spent the weekend with Zachary. He suffers from severe photosensitivity which means he is allergic to the sun, florescent and halogen lights, among others. For fifteen years he avoids it. It hurts him by collapsing his veins. It’s made him — peculiar. He has visions of angels and hell, his skin, is reflective under the moon, his eyes, palest blue. He sings opera, he writes poetry, he makes music, alone. He remembers things a child said to him five years ago. He looks forward to the ice age. He refuses to be cold. He wants to fall asleep in a glacier.