Scripts and Lightning

There was a dream, from the floor of the apartment at Craig Place. That floor was filled with nightmares and voices, a drugged clarity. It was one of two, the first I had thought completed, but has since reasserted itself. This one, the second, I had hoped merely vivid, with no real bearing. But the disruptive lightning, the afterlife, I had seen them as tag-ons. Unimportant to what I should be taking from the dream itself. Now, as this dream begins to assert itself on reality, I think I shall write it into a script.

There is no serious thought of psychic powers, though in small moments I do entertain the notion. No, it is that in times of deep distress, there is a clarity of vision that may emerge, and if one pays attention, one can see things about oneself, the development of one's heart, as it were. It deserves a fair treatment, and I shall try to give it one.

There is thunder outside my window now. The beginnings of rainfall on the pavement. Lighting is so rare here, it is hard to explain to Texans its severe imprint on the passage of days, its power to reorder life, but it is there.