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The Power of Electricity

She moved from a small town. A blonde Natalie Wood staying with me until she found a place. One night in early December, stargazing on the rooftop traffic blinking below ocean air blowing. Talking about moving to New York, photography, starting an all-male modeling agency, her life plans. She smiles that old soul smile eyes sparkling and knowing says “I want to experience the feeling of falling”—exact words—and words can haunt. She conducts an orchestra of wind and stars with rooftop refuse, a long metal rod, while dancing a night ballet her perfect body slender graceful blonde hair flowing as we make our way alleyside. How can she be so cool at just eighteen? Daphne. Behind me. I feel her there; "She's going to poke me with that!"

Behind me. The sky explodes bright white. Dazzling. Popping. Dancing. Sparks scatter, the metal rod on the power line drew God’s electric white touch through her hands. Brilliant pristine light etches my mind with the hem of her long black coat as it ever so slowly and gracefully disappears over the edge of the roof. Have I seen this movie before? The hem of her long black coat. Disappears over the edge of the roof. Time develops a distorted thickness I hope to never know again. All sounds stop in a world of hot black electric smell. My soul crumbles and re-forms as sound. The newly born scream comes from somewhere so deep I must be rooted in the earth, forcing its way through my mouth (like projectile vomit). I empty myself for an eternal second but it dissipates into the bubble of charged black air because no sound I can make will ever be loud enough to turn back time.

A tsunami of police came to inspect. They examined, questioned, made notes. Sorry to ask this, Sorry I have to ask you, Sorry. A simulation of cold-blooded eternity passed before they told me she was dead. (It was the electricity–not the fall). Questions lingered like hanged men and her clothes dangled strangely in my closet. Dark abandoned fabric that had no place there anymore. The next few days my body was rubber, the apartment was dim and shadows fell past my windows too quickly to catch sight of. There were few traces she had been in my life. Her photos, a hairbrush and Sex Pistols album her family left behind all vanished, as if they had gone in search of her. Outside my window night approaches. Streetlights burst to life with panic, long ribbons of power lines snake through the city and sometimes her energy still dances through the rooms.

Daphne.
Whispers.
Is that you?

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