The Copper Pipe of Time

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The sun blasted through David Pilcher's pipe and the light snatched him into the void. He careened away into nothingness, immobilized and helpless, yet he was unafraid. He could neither move nor speak within his agglutinous suspension, yet it carried him with what seemed to be acceptance and love. Through a darkling shroud he saw the spotlight on the stage at Woodstock, while he watched Napoleon sip his wine in France. He saw the stars of the southern cross and heard the sea crash at the feet of chiclet teethed Bikini ladies walking the beaches of Australia. Diamonds strewn at the feet of philosophers in Greece beckoned to Davy to come, come, take one home to Mother. He was inside and outside and part of and separate from a blinding trail of shimmering intention, which raced to fulfill the longings of his imagination. His was a journey of escape and he arrived he knew not where. As his gelatinous restraints left him, a wall of reality stormed toward him like a freight train and two bony hands reached for his throat.