The Conduit

The man crouches on the rooftop and opens his mind and his mouth and takes in the spirit of the storm. He sends great globs of saliva into the wind. Cold and wet he waits, perched up top the Liberty building, unmoving. Gargoyle.

Moisture churns deep within the body. Wet rain slaps his skin. Painful numbness blackens the lips flesh and toe nails. Lightning flashes. The static makes momentary networks between the rain drops that hang frozen in mid air. Moisture in the air.

This is the brain of the storm. Lightning flashes. The higher ups try to communicate down. “Can you hear?”

“I hear,” breathes the man.  Sleep is unnecessary. God has arrived. The man is equal to the task at hand and puts his life into the storm. He submits.

Prepared for the future the man is open. Playing the gargoyle conduit in the evening storm is the best pleasure the man has known. The weather owns him, and the man is open.

When the storm abides the man retreats to the page where he scribbles late into the morning. Sleep is unnecessary. God has arrived. The man is equal to the task at hand and puts his life into the work. “Here is life,” he thinks, preparing the page. The man plays conduit.

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