He thinks of them as pesky ideas. He courts them and he is covered by them. Protected from the sun—he’s pale; he can use the protection, a buzzing UV blanket. He stands in the tall grasses and weeds.  He swallows and blinks carefully. Their minute legs graze his lips. Their wings tickle. They come and go.  They flit and buzz and nestle in his soft spots. They have their individual personalities and he knows them by name. He can feel the contours of his body in this way, touched by them. He can meditate. He meditates. He allows them to cover his body, to do as they will. They will carpet him with buzzing. He embraces this. He accepts them—legs, wings, buzzing. He breathes and exhales. They do the same.

At night, without them, he wallows in dim solitude. He turns the pages of a magazine, blistered in monotony. He closes his eyes and wishes for the sun—a vampire of honey.
...