i do not like the yellow i say but it is too bright, creeping through the clouds and straining my eyes, so i hold it captive with a thought:

oh dear i really am old. real light may shine on the young but on the old well we have paintings and masks and ceiling fans; no light through these blinds creeps in to warm us. our leathery skin will burn anyway.

no no the yellow is not yours he is not yours so far away in the forever snare. snare snare i love how you talk like i’m a child and you my nanny you know i once trusted you. well of course i did it was only natural unlike fake painted light in a hall of fools.

yes yes yes i hate the yellow.
it is urine but i am not sick.

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Writing prompt for my English class: your thoughts on the first day of university.
30 August, 2007.