Superconductor

 It's morning on the mountain by the sea.  He wakes up with a hankering for food, after dreaming about foot-long hot dogs and rabid candy vendors.  Ignoring the rumble, he takes a piss and lays back down, closing his eyes.  He imagines his body is made of niobium-titanium alloy, heavy enough to feel stillness, light enough to challenge gravity.  The coldness descends on him like an Arctic breeze, softly sinking him to the lowest state.  For ten minutes he doesn't move, letting his body settle, holding his mind on that single thought.  

When he hears the overture, it's as if every electron in his body seizes an instrument, revolving in tune with the music.  Becoming weightless, the steady hum of violins lifts him off the bed, letting him float freely in a sea of bliss.  He's reached them, the super-cool delta waves of Neptune, sea-beamed off the planetary map, vibrating to the rhythm of jhana, paramount junction of the mind.  The music takes him away, swallows him up, levitating particles the vastness of time synchronized, fractured pieces of his soul becoming whole.  Sirens call from the far side, deep in the mysterious gloom, coaxing him to dream on.  He can move them now, all the notes held in place by quanta, pulled from the grid in sequences of song.  

Coldness breaks, a sudden shift of focus.  Electricity converts the static elements into runaway melodies.  The crescendo comes in full orgasmic regalia, with the shore evaporating, the tide rolling away, the mountain alone, darkness disintegrating the stars, a nothingness beheld.  Mystical magician, winged messenger of the cosmic symphony, cast this music out from oblivion, have the others surrender to your sweet calling.  If only they could hear your song, those lost souls, if only they could become Aware.  

Somewhere in the between, an angel hears his devotion.  She pulls away the foliage, revealing glossy eyes as big as leaves.  Enraptured, she broadcasts the music through the rest of Mentalia, where every formation is made of thought.  It's a new song, for a new day, recorded on sheets of memory the particles had entangled.  What delights the living is presented to the dead.  They can hear everything we sing, we limited vessels of matter, we cantankerous critters of the densest realm.  Only a few of us can break through, and how grateful we are for that. 

The arrangement settled, he opens his eyes, ready for a new day.  And maybe a hot dog.