questionable realities fluxxed in a crucible of a heart on fire

My mother’s house was on a partially isolated plot of land adjacent to a highway, but situated down a long, muddy dirt driveway. There was one neighboring house occupied by a neighbor family I had known my whole life. They, however, were about to be acquainted with a new me. I was a body who housed innumerable questionable realities fluxxed in a crucible of a heart on fire.

There were four of us there in the house. Two of us occupied common areas as bedrooms. The septic system was old, failing, and had never been designed for more than two people. The solution I devised: a public works project in the yard.

Last night I dreamt of digging holes in the yard. Then the yard was inside a bedroom, which was inside a common room, inside the house I grew up in. The dirt shelved away from my shovel and into the maw of the ground in which I stood. I looked up over the edges of the hole and saw people in the yard. They were lighting bon-fires and tottering about. Some were standing in smoking circles.

There is a power we all have over reality and it is loosely defined. When I was 19, I picked up a ringing alarm clock next to my bedhead to shut it off. I worked all night in a microscope slide factory and came home at eight in the morning. The alarm went off at nine. It is not lost on me nowadays how setting an alarm