I look out of my apartment window. It’s a white expanse. Snow, with brown patchy areas on rolling prairie treeless hills. Black dots of small evergreens dot these foothill areas. Antelope, coyote, deer and turkey, wild, may be seen. Yet today is different. Out past the rolling slope is the air force base.

A large white implosion. A phosphorous swelling of the horizon. It blinded us. Then the report. As jets a-mighty overhead was it, though louder. I ducked. The flash, the blast, the inner outer suction exploded the window. I was laced, scourged, with flying glass. If not for the strips of curtains protecting my entire flesh may have been flayed. Skinned alive.

Too, the blast drove in my entire apartment. Fragments of plants, ceramic from pots and dishes, my splattered pets, lay against the wall. I still sat upon a sofa, which was apparently rooted to the floor. I was cut badly, and my clothing ripped. Bright red blood dripped from lacerations caused by the forceful flying driven glass. Glass fragments stuck literally in my bones and in the wall.

Nevertheless, I was alive. A smell, the metallic blood taste filled my mouth. Desolation whipped reality into a maelstrom. The explosion-implosion fireball then saturation burned. Bathed in streaming blood, I was somewhat protected. I survived this, too. Only my eyes cooked like ‘lil- Red’s boiled Louisiana peanuts tender in my sockets.

My hands, fingers, flew to my face. Like hard-boiled eggs I popped the two scallop-seared eyeballs from drippy sockets. Crying, weeping my blindness, I salted and peppered. Consuming myself.

Sure, I’d been a world traveler. Now, however, the real journey started. That day, two days later, a week, perhaps two, I stepped out blind into…what I’m still attempting to determine is a dream.

I saw Kafka. Saw him without wife, putting onto paper, as me, this very tale. It appeared I noticed it was not exhaustive writing for the Czech. He knew my own strength.

Well, following the implosion disturbance, I wondered. Was there something wrong with God? I figured me sitting on my couch ripped to bloody ribbons was not what God had planned for me, us, everything. I was right, thank rightfully (for once), God. Because I and all other believers believe if God decrees it, we haven’t a chance. Though God does try to help (those that fruitlessly try to help themselves).

I know this because since I’ve known God He’s protected. No apocalypse for anyone but death. The critical concern, then, is the great inevitability of death. And birth.

The above was a dream. No implosion-explosion outside my window at the local air force base occurred, yet. There are many explosions-implosions in your head, on the other brain lobe, each second or three, that vastly concern me. For they are want, desire, and need enhanced. By you. And that is the exquisite, unique and satisfied-frustrated brain dynamo we want to tap. For industrial energy.

Your head. The working machinations of a pleasure-loving, greedy inequitable skull. The shenanigans, insults, peccadilloes, slights, praises, envies, loves and hates; the power of these thoughts, emotions, tapped! To be used as everyday sustainable sources of power and energy, Jeffersonian style.  As they already are used, only now, for much more. Poltergeist power, devious-good, harnessed, measured, concentrated, utilized in hopefully beneficial service.  Noggin power electricity telepathy.

First, we needed brains. Out of personal sense of duty, I submitted my own. My mind it would be which would traverse this mental landscape. The search for the telepathic, electricity-generating, spoon bending power of the mind, in this newest round, would begin with me. It would be I that would walk the tightrope. Determined in my own mind that to fall from the rope, with no net, though, quite high, would be preferable to successfully balancing. It was with this focus I began living. I figured it might help me. Or at least determine some hidden essential fact for successful living previously entirely unknown. Something critically new under the sun.  Previously unknown. Like whom you were in your last life.