"She used to wear sheer tights and live in a house made of fogged glass; it had tanks of jellyfish and bottled beverages. But she felt trapped and in the way, so she opted for a glass house in a field. Forget the tights, she doesn’t even need underwear here. During the day, she startes at her veins and touches the fait outline of her collar bones. At night, she holds a flashlight under her fingers to see the blood. This ritual of hers began with a traumatic run in with a herd of gazelle: she awoke one morning to the thunk of an animal hitting its head on the wall of her house. She jumped up and the gazelle’s eyes widened, looking straight at her. She began to uncontrollably sob, and in her clear house there was nothing to hide behind. In a last effort of preservation, her gaze turned inward. Now all she can do is patiently wait to disappear."
by Nolan Boomer