All is (was) White

I'm a camera whose iris is opened too far, if that helps. The edges are muffled. Figures bob by, just floating vignettes, not to be bothered. Clarity occurs only within the whitest pieces of the lightness. Light, light, light. Everywhere is lit. Everywhere is white. Shadows have been vaccined. Chased away into an imaginary place for children, like Candyland or Hell. Everything is what it is. No trickery. No veils. I appear as I am. My skin is perforated and craggy, blotched with red in sporadic locations. My eyes are gray and yellow. My teeth are like ancient elephant tusks. We've all adjusted. Everyone is ugly and textured. All is white.

It changed today. A day lost in an endless parking lot of days and days and days.

It walked by me on the street; on the other side of the street. I was shielding my eyes from the ground's reflection when my attention was drawn. Somehow the light was being cancelled. An aura of less-ness hung in the air and moved with absolute grace as it cut through the crowd. A hard blink did nothing. Its teeth gleamed, unashamed. The passers walked by it unfettered. They were busy shielding the light and repeating the day’s tasks in their heads, totally unaware of their brush with an alien. I, apparently, was the only one who noticed. In front of its eyes hung huge tinted fish-tanks.  Its thick hair broke away from the shoulders like a forever-crashing wave. It was driven by an unheard melody. That was just then. My eyes are adjusting. The world is being pulled closer. It's all moving and yet somehow staying in place. Shifting really. The world shifts as it selectively approaches and retreats. I cannot look away. My cells are screaming. Rockets are firing. It is too glorious. It isn't, this isn't, real. All was as it should've been; all was white. This mystic being has infiltrated the blown-out sameness that I lean upon. I'm dead. I must be dead and it's a demon come to get me for the things I did before the light came and washed away my misgivings. The demon smells like a forbidden garden, like a god's stash. Its eyes are as black as a million miles from a candle's flame; so black they're sucking in the world outside. It speaks in a lullaby rhythm that makes my dick hard. My ears lift slightly. It smokes, because it asks me for one. Its name is Jessica and above us the sky is dark.