Glistening like oil, my seed levitates before my eyes. I can’t see it, because my eyes are closed, but I know it’s there the same as I know Meeko’s sex is white-hot to touch. It’s a perverse type of intuition she’s encouraged in me without being aware; one that weird kids like me seek out at every opportunity. As the kiss of electricity evaporates the tears that dare to trickle down my freckled cheeks, the world seems to have gone inside of me. I’ve lived inside myself ever since the death of my childhood, and yet this is something else—a new sensation for a different way of being. It’s as if I’ve become one with the electricity transmitting from the pylons, and that I’m now on a plain far above that which concerns itself with little humans. I realise that technically I’m still a little human too, and a silly one at that, but the time for technicalities is over for those such as us. Peeking through squinted eyelids, Meeko’s skin moves over her bones as if it were water. It’s translucent. I can see her bones and her veins and the organs she’s ruined with her diet of cigarettes and muffins and the cheap gin she drinks on her lunch breaks at the diner she sometimes works at. Not that I’m one to talk. I have a job, but like her, I don’t often turn up as I’ve never wanted a job and so see it as something so utterly superfluous to my being. I only do it so I’m keeping up with appearances, but seeing as though this appearance of mine is beyond salvation, it’s a superfluous situation too. I’m an absurd man, the same as she is a ridiculous woman, and because of this, we are as free as our memories. Something I didn’t at first notice, or perhaps recognise, draws my attention from the dance of sperm and subconscious awakening. It’s a most curious thing, but these are curious times. Beneath the halo of spunk above her head and the crystal sheen of her skin, I see feathers; feathers as bold and as multicoloured as her shimmering soul.