- for photosynthesis.

I wake from a dream about climbing, and I’m hungry. Nothing in the fridge is what I want. I’m thirsty, and put my mouth to the tap for seconds that stretch into minutes, but nothing sates me. My belly bulges from the water, and I wiggle a little to make it slosh.

In the shower, I stare at the wall, and lift my toes up and down. I’m not thirsty anymore.

My clothes feel strange. T-shirts and jeans I’ve worn down to thin soft perfection feel restrictive and smothering. It isn’t warm, but I venture out in a singlet and thongs, and halfway across Collins Street I step into the sun.

After a while, I hear the tram driver dinging at me furiously, and the pedestrians telling me to get out of the way and asking if I’m alright. I skip across the rest of the road unsteadily. On the footpath I let out an enormous belch. I’m not hungry anymore.

Am I glowing? I feel like I’m glowing. I should be glowing, but when I wave my hand around, there’s a lack of pretty light trails. No wonder plants flower so violently. I feel drunk and fat and glorious. I want to bloom, right here on the street. How indecent of me!

It takes me a while to get to work. Every sunbeam I drift through is like another hit, straight though my skin, and I stagger about giggling in a slightly worrying manner. I’m like Garfield, falling over in the sunshine and dying in the warmth.

The fluorescent lights and air conditioning in the office building sober me up in seconds. Ugh. Ugh! This light is like drinking urine. Watered down urine. It makes me sick, or maybe that’s the come down. After half an hour, I make a dash for the toilet. My stomach heaves, but all that comes out is a little cloud of gold dust, which dissipates in the air.

I feel mildly better, at least no worse, and settle in for the rest of the shift.

Be careful, the supervisor who thinks he’s funny says, sit there too long and you might put down roots.

I don’t point out that putting down roots in this carpet is about as appealing as snorting desiccated cow shit. That would be stating the goddamn obvious.

Staying another minute in this vault is just appealing. I tell the supervisor I don't feel well, and he tells me I look do look a bit green, and I should go put my feet up in front of the TV. I just need some sun. He looks at me doubtfully.

For good measure, I tender my resignation. My general manager doesn't like this. She likes it even less when the reason I give her for my departure is that the office tastes bad. She's not sold on photosynthesis as a lifestyle. She doesn't understand sunlight, or how amazingly good for the environment I am. Saving the world, one sun beam at a time.

I’m supposed to give them two weeks notice, but I have no intention of ever coming back. I don’t go home. I don’t need my bed, I don’t need the food in the fridge, I don’t need the roof over my head. I get on the next train heading to the beach. I find myself a park on a hill, with a view of the water, and gorge myself on the sunset. The darkness brings out a drowsiness in me I’ve never know before, and I succumb to it without a fight. In the morning, the sun wakes me with a feast, and I gobble it all up, giddy and giggly and glowing.

I don’t mind it here. I dig my toes down, seeking water.

Weeks later, some kids with a bag of goon and a lighter find me, and set me on fire.