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Remember. Just remember the thing about which all memories revolve. Self-preservation, as it were, matters more than mere physical survival. He wants to do more than survive, just like everyone, he surmises; he wants to thrive. He needs to remember the cost, the value of knowing all the small things that most people, the vast most, fail to ever grasp, much less remember. A small light blinks once, and then all of the lights within his office flicker on. The view from the widows that line two of his corner office’s four walls is now obstructed by the light within the building’s interior. He buzzes for his assistant. “Yes, sir?” the voice on the other end of the line attends. “Call someone who can shut off my office’s overhead lights, please,” he requests. “Sir?” the voice urges. “Send someone up here with a ladder or an electrician,” he reiterates. “Uh, yes, give me one minute,” the voice acknowledges. “Thank you,” he thanks.

Leaning back in his chair, he kicks his feet up onto his desk. Immediately bored, he reaches into the lowest drawer on the right side of his desk and retrieves a miniature bong and small glass jar full of weed. He fills the bong’s bowl with just one good-sized hit. The bong is otherwise empty. He buzzes for his assistant. “Sir?” the voice answers. “Bring me a bottle of water, please.” “Right away, sir.” A soft knock, knock, knock. “Yes,” he persuades. The body to which the voice belongs appears in the doorway. The body holds up the bottle of water in its left hand. “Yes. Thank you. Bring it here,” he commands as the body makes its way to him. “Anything else?” the body offers. “No, that’s all. Thanks,” he states as he grabs the bottle and opens it. The body moves to leave his office. “Oh, and the electrician?” he shouts just before the body closes the door completely. “Yes, one will arrive within the hour, sir,” the body explains through the remaining crack in the doorway. “No sooner?” he asks. “No. I’m sorry, sir. Something about an issue on one of the lower floors.” “Fine. It’s no problem,” he speaks aloud, seemingly to himself. The body exits the office and closes the door after an awkward moment of waiting to see if he has anything more to say.

He fills the bong’s chamber with some water. Ready, he can’t find his lighter. He rummages through every drawer in his desk until he finds a pack of cheap restaurant matches. He opens the flap to discover the handwritten name and number of someone named Oslathe. He flips the flap closed to read the name of the restaurant that provided the matches. The matchbook’s cover reveals the graphic image of a lime and jalapenos with a modern typeface that reads, “The Cantina.” He doesn’t eat Mexican food, he recalls and flips the book open again to read the name and number. He thinks nothing of it and pulls a match from the cluster. Flipping the flap all the way back now, he slides the match, pressed against the starter and the matchbook’s cover, with great force. It easily lights into a small, uneventful flame. He fucking hates overhead lights. Lifting the bong to his mouth, he lights the bowl as he takes a deep pull and waves the hand holding the match to put it out. He releases the bowl from the bong to free the THC-filled smoke and vapor into his lungs. A deep cloud-like exhale. The ash still slightly alight, he takes another small toke. Satisfied, he leans back into his chair and attempts to see beyond the lit glass windows. A flash somewhere beyond the glass. He walks toward the window and awkwardly presses his face upon it. A low rumble. Another small flash followed by the streak of light cracking open the skies above.

He gasps in an appreciative awe. A strong, thunderous roar gently vibrates the glass against which his face is still pressed. He closes his eyes to take in the sensation. Falling, the glass opens up before him; he feels the wind on his face, the droplets of cool rain upon his flesh, the hot searing electricity of the lightning striking his bones. Everything feels right, despite the fact that he can’t quite name the feelings. He lands gently upon a soft pillow of delight and peace, the softness slowly swallowing him whole as he plummets deep down into a hole of vibrant light and waves of throbs that massage the sides of his mind. He smiles. Sitting up, the weight of his arms make him giggle. He claps for the oddity and laughs even harder. The sensation of his two hands meeting is detached from the sound of his two hands meeting. The thrill, the joy, the out-of-body experience. He’s thirsty.

A buzz from the phone on his desk along with the voice that typically springs forth from it, “Sir?” He does not respond. “Sir? The electrician is here,” the voice continues despite the lacking response. He remains comfortably seated upon the floor while looking out the window. A knock on the door, knock, knock. “Yea, come in,” he manages. The body returns accompanied by a uniformed man carrying a soft box of tools and a ladder. “The electrician is … ” the body begins but then stops when he’s noticed upon the floor. “Sir, are you alright?” “Oh, yes. I’m fine. Come in.” “The electrician is here. What do you want him to do?” “What? What electrician?” he asks while turning to face the voice. He takes a long hard look at his assistant and the accompanying man. “Oh, uh. Right,” he stammers as he gets up off the floor via all fours but does not walk toward them. “I’m sorry; I can’t remember why I called you,” he admits. “Something about the lights, sir?” He contemplates the assistant’s assistance.

“Oh, shit. Yes. Please either remove these overhead bulbs,” he points; “Or disconnect them completely, please. They turned on automatically for some reason. I don’t want them on.” The electrician looks at the assistant and then at him, and then he turns over his shoulder and flicks the light switch on the wall next to the door. All of the lights in the office turn off. “Oh, fuck! Yes! Now that’s exactly what I wanted. Thank you!” he states in genuine gratitude. “Sure thing,” the electrician states, a little confused. “Anything else?” the electrician hesitantly asks. “How can you be sure they won’t turn on again?” he enthusiastically asks. “Wouldn’t it be easier to take out the bulbs or disconnect the wires from the power source?” “If they come on again,” the electrician explains; “Just flip this switch,” the electrician demonstrates as he flicks the lights on and off by flipping the switch up and down. “Ah, excellent!” he praises in excitement. “So, off then?” the electrician asks, almost mockingly at this point. “Yes! Great. Thank you so much,” he gushes as he walks over to shake the electrician’s hand. The electrician flips the switch as he exits the office with the assistant. Pleased, he sighs a grateful sigh of relief. Plopping onto the sofa near one of the windows, he glances outward and watches the seemingly endless display of light as it dances upon the sky.