It was Quantum Mechanicality. Or the Quantum Physical Attributions to the Platonic Curve. Something Quantum. Rain’s Quantum Physicality abruptly punctures the Harrisonian Plane. Someone needs to fucking find this. Where is the equation? The reason. The mechanic. Love’s Quantum Mechanicality. He backpaces and forth from the fervor flies out a tempestuous chord, one of innocent virality: The Quantum Mechanicality of Love! By what metaphor does what we refer to when we think of the feeling called love perform? He can’t even think about that right now, dizzy with paralcystic despair.

It’s a foot question, soaked through. His stomach has a certain feeling. Food question. It’s a good question. Really good question Harrison. He did always ask really good questions. This question, only one man can answer in the prime of his life, which he is. There is no doubt about the rise and fall of Harrison Bowers. The unwise stoopsneer would think: lowest low. Not the case. He is strong, hairy. A twig, refuse, stepped on, but he refused to snap. Refuses. Bowers, covered in grit and in his very existence the declaration of these mechanics, the mechanics by which cold peaks become plains, steel becomes sword, streets become... But he is weak. No, not weak, clearly he is weakened by the might of a thousand eras, karma squared, one million repeating. It was not grade school that bestruck his hair with soot and starvation. Nay. Nay but not without a thousand NEVERS! It is literally. Literary. It is a literary mind that he possesses, but the mathematical aspect of it might precipize something greater. Nobody understands him, of course. Not yet. Nobody. Not once, not never. Stand still. 

It is dark, and the skies have bullets, hornets, they are saying bzzzzzzzpspzzz. Ineffectual stings may break one single molecule on his armor, might puncture his hair. His skull. Actually, they might destroy him, each little demon, cold and heartbreaking. He might be completely and utterly obliviated by the simple rain. Stop. Time out: His heart has already broke. He looks up, though as to curse the wrath of a thousand wet plagues, but a splat splats his eye. Typical. Classically typical of THAT MAN UP THERE. Down here. Everywhere. Everyone. That man who spat on his eye and kicked him awake, thinking he was down and dead but no. He is just feeling a little bit cold right now. He looks back down and trudges under FRANKS awning, red chromatic even in the nighttime. A curtain, an awning, a shadow hangs over him, a shadow in the night, the night enshadows him, and with it, the clenched fist of light inside darkness, and under FRANKS he is safe. Safe. Shshspcpssssafffe. From the rain, but cold still, wet still, frozen still. It speaks.

Harrison. Harrison is his name. Harrison looks and listens. As always, he hears nothing but the spitter, spited, the darkness around white and red lights. Spitlspktlemnsplshpsplt. He stands peculiarly still and screams out listening so hard but all that is heard is the name calling out his rain the rain, calling harrison… sneering, teasing Cathy’s smile and her pestile jell-o shot that started it all. He curses loudly the fate and sits down. 

FRANK is dry. FRANK is watching him. Behind the counter staring. FRANK knows what he has done and lets him sleep there anyway the fucking bastard knows and lets him. He knows he knows. 

He needs something to eat. Something like… Denny’s. Nothing. Nothing to mind. What does that mean, something like Denny’s? Only Denny’s comes to mind but that is in Minnesota and he is way too fucking far from there. Why do they ditch him? Was it because he was speaking with profusion? Him, an alienating sort, the type without regard for the thoughts around him, so warped, wrapped, in the profundity of within? Fuck that. He always cared for everyone. That’s why he left home. Came here. It was so far away. But he knew true heat by the side of the road, HitchHiker, ‘Sota to SF, and Sable like cool ocean touch. Too bad she turned out to not possess anything of significance or merit. Desolate thing, hot underground air, not sweet or natural. Disgusting. It was Charlie this Charlie that and who the fuck did she think she was to make Charlie into this GOD that Harrison couldn’t even scratch let alone stand up to. “Charlie used to” “Charlie never” Get out of my car. He stands up. Sable? Her voice is Everywhere, and he knows it was just the rain again. 

Fuck this, he thinks, stands up, fast, like SuperHero, Adventure, noble call to action scene. The night thrill agust straight through him. He can’t just let this storm go bye. There’s something out there in the darkness under a stone, worn round, soft cold. Like he. He is waiting for the right stone. Storm. The right storm, and the right stone, and over turned under, under will be the equation. There’s something there. But it scatters away from him, down the street.

Skipping stones. Each puddle a splash. He walks faster now. Skipping one stone across the long road black, picking it up and again. Shorter. Harrison was shorter when he could see farther, and he could see in the dark, and it didn’t even scare him, like it did Turner, who cried at their sleepover, no but not anymore. That was a long time ago. He couldn’t even remember it. He can’t see where he’s going. No need. No one can. He knows the way to the creek. He does remember one thing: he always knew he would find them. That whole night. He knew it all along. When he did, it was like he always did, and because he didn't know why, he just skipped the stone over and over the long black Minnesota night. The light turns red and obviously he stops. Everyone has to stop. 

Fuck that. Finding it NOW. Keep going. To the park, the creek. Four blocks down. Two blocks up. The torrent soaks his brow now, and he blinks and walks and blinks and blinks and blinks Deep breath. Cold shivers. Where did he stash the warm treasure, the golden fleece? He stands still to think about it but now he only remembers the newspaper, the quantum mechanicality of something or other discovered. It was a moment he remembered. Something in the loose wintry air tightened on his skin when he read that and goose bumps and a break out. This is it, this is it. Stop stealing his thoughts, he thinks. He shakes it off. Obviously. He remembers thinking that: Obviously! It would be within the realm of the unseeable, the realm foretold, the Quantum Realm. He would need to see the unseeable. He was just 22 years old and he set his jaw grit to work to find the equation. That was before the man spat on his face. That was actually so long ago. He can’t keep doing this. This reminishit. Sspltpksspltksspltksk. Again. Rain was always one to snigger. It doesn’t matter to him. He’s just a spit sea of fucking hatred for the slippery assholes who He lets out a well deserved scream, because it is impossible to cage a hungry beast on the prowl. And yes, there, the first of infuriated blows above, and he knows tonight might be the night. Thunderbird of the Quantum Realm. Swept downriver, one can only swim so long. From the falls, he will fly. A cold shiver, feeling taller, stronger, reunited drop by drop with the Man failing to kill him. 

Nothing. God how hard he searched that night. The Seeker! Finally! Up and down Grant Street. Up and Down Waverly. They were supposed to be between there. Literally every single wet bush. And Alley. He thought he saw Angel slip out from around that corner but it was only a raccoon splashing. Always as it was. Alone and so he gave up and trudged, their yard mud but his feet were already soaked through obviously so it didn't even matter but he found them as he already knew, warm on the couch watching Peter and the Dog. DITCHERS. They ditched him and they had a damn good reason and all he needs to do is cinch his Purpose onto why, the mechanistic, it’s something small, something tiny, something overlooked by everyone, always. He needs to walk faster now. Why isn’t he walking faster? WOAH. He slips on the grassy edge of the park and catches himself. Harrison you are twenty four years old and you are not falling. But he should slow down. It’s the big wet yard again, and punching him in the gut is Angel, ten ton hammers from the one friend he thought NEVER. NEVER. Always. WRONG WRONG WRONG. The rain is wrong, never right, never ever telling the truth. Always alone? WRONG. By damn, he knows that. But Harrison knows the rain is right. No, no, no, he just needs to keep walking because eventually tonight in the creek he will turn the right stone over and then later with Mom we will celebrate the equation on a dry piece of paper at home…

He stops, full stop. Stop. Stop. He needs to stop. It is clear that he needs to keep walking, to keep going, to not let this slip, this clearly insufficient slip on just another rough patch of mud be the last. No. NO. He needs to stop right now in the rain and cry. CRY. Cry? You’re out of your damn mind. Do you have any idea what he actually needs? Always. SILENCE! I DEMAND SILENCE. Listen. To me Harrison. To you? You think he’ll listen to you? Bully with a whip, you think the rain will stop? The rain will not quiet, and you cannot make it stop, because it knows what it is doing. It does it so well. It rains. It rained and rained and rains. Harrison sticks his arm out as if to fall. And then finally he does fall, he falls, and a tall eucalyptus tree catches him. His arm knew, his hand was ready, and he slides down the true foot exhausted. 

Harrison wakes up hungry and shivering. It’s just fine drizzling now. He walks over the bridge by the creek and on the other side slides down the mud into the water’s edge. Under the bridge, hand wedged in a hole between the cement and a wooden beam, he pulls out the patagonia fleece from that bag behind Goodwill. Big breath in. He holds it and tears off his rain jacket and his long sleeve and his t shirt, all soaked through to his skin taut and licked, he throws them to the ground and pulls on the fleece all in one motion. Soft, he exhales hard. So much better. You don’t need anyone to be warm and soft, Harrison remembers. Stupid equation, always keeping him alone through the rain. Never again. He doesn’t need to solve anything. They ditched him because they were jerks. Let him sit. Rest, on the stump beneath the children’s bridge. His hamstrings ache as his knees bend. He’s getting old. The river twinkles from lamplight above. Such a Literary mind. He was always writing aloud. But now everything feels answered. He should just sit and listen to the creek. He’s not a kid anymore. He doesn’t have to adventure. He should sleep here tonight.

His stomach snarls, and though sleep winks apathetic eye, Harrison knows better, far better. Sleep finds a man neither food nor answers. Sleep is where little boys go to pretend.