Astro-phil

Long ago, at the tip-top Mt. Gilliamarakev, stood a woman, beautiful in all aspects, whether outwardly or inwardly. She stood there, looking at the dark matter all around her, Chaos. Mt. Gilliamarakev was very high, higher than anything, reaching ever so slowly and majestically up to the skies. 'Twas higher than Wiz Khalifa. The only occupant of this majestic magykform was that beautiful woman. As she stared down into the blackness, she contemplated about her life, which never ends. Yes, she was immortal, because she was a deity. Of who? Of what? She wondered, and a glint in her already twinkling, impossibly coloured eyes was seen, and this a

The following is a non-fictional account of a conscious stream that took place during my exploration of a water treatment plant. I was at the office, looking at the wall-sized whiteboard.  Around 200 buildings stared back at me, numbered and color-coded.  I've been to pretty much all of them, but one unfamiliar number stuck out to me.  #41.  What a boring number.  MUD Platte West, that's a Metropolitain Utilities District.  I look up the address and drive.  Just to go see it.  And by the way, this isn't even a slow day for me, this is mostly what I do. I drive West for 35 minutes, which is forever in Omaha time.  One road, Q St, hills, mead

Of the many tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead, two fell down, further soaking his already dampened brow.  Suspended, he floated upside-down in a padded room, dreaming without consciousness of his body or its position in space. His mind reeled from slide to slide—images of adolescence pooling together and then streaming into an old time film: The Life and Times of Donald A. Silver.  The yellowed silent movie showed a young man smiling and leaning against an old Chevrolet sedan.  Cigarettes burnt the corner, and he was dancing with the woman he'd asked to marry him.  But in the center of the shot, a blur grew from the in