Every time I turn, the world disappears, but I remember it. In my head it's never gone and the world goes on. As the sun stares back at me, I can see into his eyes and thoughts, but I usually (pretend to) ignore them. Nevertheless, I end up listening to its words, for he is everywhere; indeed, I would consider him a god, were I that type of person. I have been thinking about asking him to leave; his light makes me uncomfortable and makes want to fuck everything up.

The sun's words are neither comforting nor agitating, but he usually asks me say everything there is to say. If only I could! Alas, ideas exist but words do not. Every time I seem to grasp words that vaguely describe it, they flee like rain does from clouds.

And so it is that I wander between the idea of running away or standing still.