He reconsiders, with gravity

Whether or not there are alien visits and interventions he thought that it was possible that he'd been visited. That that was what had caused that thud, that noticeable bump which had, perhaps, made his house shift and tilt. This was the work of an extra-terrestrial visit. He allowed himself to imagine it. Then to think of it fully, completely, as an act of another kind of god. For would this not be a better signature of meaning, even of insignificance? Can there not be solace in both? That a house shifting beneath him, somehow suddenly tipping over at the behest of unseen geologic demons, might not also be a house touched by the unfathomable force of creatures un bound by these physical boundaries. Gravity? Attraction? What of them? Strange solace for him perhaps, but he began to hope for, look for, the signs.

Was his house not brighter, more electrified, more vivid since that bump? Did his toast not pop sooner? higher? Was it not more perfectly browned? Did the slices of five grain harvest whole wheat veritably leap out of the slot into his hands? Was the clover honey not more zesty, in its essence grapefruited with tang, the butter beneath it creamier, more mild, so receptive? Had he in fact, in the moment, in that moment of thunder, been transformed?

Had his senses not been replaced? Was he a not new man? What should he think about this now apparent overwhelming everywhereness of light and love being showered on him by sun and sky as he steps outside and proposes to himself that a walk, even a run, or a bicycle ride might be in order? To what other force might he owe this lightness of the Spring air? This whatness of the wind? Its effervescence in his hair? Can he not smile? Is his house not nodding in agreement? Is it not jaunty? Cannot the universe speak in more than whispers?

Ride report

in: 3'C wind 10 ks W

out: 9'C wind 20 ks W