Zed writes poems on his arms in green ink because he likes the shape of letters. Zed writes about the clouds and about patterns and about boys and girls and everything in between because he is a boy in love with life. Zed's room is filled with spiderwebs of string and laundry clips to hang saturated photographs he took on an aging camera, one photo for every single sunset he's ever seen and two for ever sunrise, because Zed likes fresh starts. Zed writes about sitting on water and watching a timid butterfly emerge from behind the horizon and nervously flit this way and that, up and up and up until the sky is awash with the same pale purple of its wings. Zed writes about countless other butterflies joining it until the sky is alive with a frenzy of wings and pulsing colours and thick, oozing symphonies. He writes about the clouds parting and the sun appearing, an epic crystal ball of swirling, expired newness, and the asymmetrical symmetry of the sandy sky that stretches like a freshly bathed beach up and over his head and all around him. Zed is afraid to blink; he doesn't want to miss a moment of the spectacle: tumbling wisps of cloud like candy floss, colossal towering cumulonimbus clouds like confident cliffs, smears of yellow spread like butter over blotchy splashes of pink. Soon, Zed sees the sky calm down, the tumultuous colours merging and paling, soon to form a weightless sort of blue. He calls you and he hopes you hear: "Quick," he says, "Come quick. I'm having this lovely sort of dream."
Hurry before you miss it.
