The Vent

There is something not quite right with Mr. Ken. He smiles alot, but at all the wrong things. His taste in music is slightly off the mainstream or esoteric circles. His breakfast consists of a raw egg, orange juice and milk, in the same cup at once. I believe I once witnessed him feasting off raw liver. He reads books about people other people consider dangerous. He steals bicycles from amongst the donated items supporting local thrift stores. He cleans them and resells on the interweb. He does not enjoy being in the midst of multitudes. His breathing increases dramatically, his eyes roll in his face, and he tells you he needs to leave. Certain lights make his migraines act up. He picks up every penny he sees on the street however scratched it may be. He prefers to wash dishes than make a side for pot lucks, even when there is an electric dishwasher present. I'm not certain he finds the sea a peaceful body. The moon looks the other way on the nights he strays. His skin becomes translucent, his organs begin to show in places. After one hour of moonlight collection, he closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath, and almost immediately his body emits light. It is a dim, yellowish light, not quite amber. Light like the light from a fixture where insects have perished and dust has settled thickly. He has many pen pals which he writes and which write to him. They all discuss dreams they've dreamt in the hot nights of Summer. Once he sweat over a post card, and the sweat made some of the ink bleed to the point of incomprehension. He mailed it anyway. I never knew how to judge him: he could be highly practical or careless. Perhaps he was both.