Sunlight irritates me. After the trees in my yard were cut down, -- one in the front and three in the back -- an unhealthy amount of sunshine surged into my room through cellular shades that lit up like LED panels. The shadows that used to adorn the walls sighed feebly like the fading smoke of blown-out candles. The book pages on my desk seemed to lose their mystery as they reflected back the white light that bleached my brain back to a blank slate. I peeked out the shades; unbearable.

Do I have photophobia? Am I a vampire? No. I just think whoever invented sunlight has bad taste. It makes everything as attractive as a faded photograph. But the artist who designed it into dusk and dawn is a genius. The red glow, the soft, retreating rays, the light edges on the dim clouds. Works of art. Not when it crawls into every single crease and corner of trees and streets and slaps onto it garish glares and infinite, unintelligible shades of white, desaturating landscapes. Enough, please.

Agitated. Can’t sit still. She doesn’t look like herself with her hair pulled back, in a headband, bare forehead and nose shining in the white heat. Put her in a black dress. Ditch the headband; let the hair flow free and frame the face. Now let’s walk, with the sunset behind us. Enter the city’s night lights, look at them arabesquing around us against a dark velvet backdrop, vibrant streaks there, vivid shapes there, vivacious hues waltzing, glowing… The Roman fountain illuminated from underneath with a --

I had to get up, can hardly stand it. Went to the bathroom. Oh good, a spot where the sun haven’t completely permeated. Cafes in every corner. A red, passionate glow was spilling out from below the ground. We walked towards it and descended the stairs into a patio, with palms and statues, the facade lit like a baroque painting by floor lights; she glowed like one of the Roman fountain statues. Inside, the cafe was a dim, narrow labyrinth with infinite booths and rooms. The low-ceilings --

Went to get a drink of water. The sun shifted and when I came back the bathroom got brighter. I went down to the basement. Perfect. How literally I took the meaning of Nabokov’s quote, “How freely one breathes in his marvelous labyrinths!” I was drunk in the candles, and the coffee, and her carefree face, in our corner of the enchanted maze of the cafe. The ambience of murmuring voices at other tables, in other distant rooms. The smell of desserts, sweet caffeine. The clicks of dishes. Her face. The sound of water running through pipes in the basement. I stood up and walked around. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. Pale grass and sunlight clutched at the tiny windows.

And when we came back out into the pleasant chill of the night air, the stars looked like they were sprinkled onto a dark chocolate pudding. Her bright, lovely mouth danced in curious shapes, but I could hardly hear her because of the waves of people and cars; fluorescent Milky Way. I took her by the arm and we walked slowly; part of the galaxy of stars. Artificial stars, but full of life, full of energy, full of soul. We drifted off and the mail came. I went up the stairs and opened the front door. The sun blasted me full in the face. The white envelops stung my eyes as they reflected the harsh rays. I went back in and had lunch. After that I felt drowsy and dozed a little. I dreamt stars. When I awoke the sun was orange. It was going down; it was afternoon.

Good, I can write again.