Lightning strikes outside— but no thunder.

Nor rain. Maybe a car had drifted down the road, rolling past the house with full beams on, just at the precise moment I glanced up seeking an epiphany? Nonetheless, silence.
77/In the back of a neighborhood bar, in a corner booth, Pan settles in shadows, his crumpled fedora hung low over his forehead, his stained raincoat folded up beside him on the seat. The work-shift over, the sorting of nuts and bolts finalized, the anatomical elements of various machines herded back into appropriate bins. He sips foam off a fresh beer, gloomily tracing carved initials of the past with a worn toothpick.


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