That which awaits the living shall never threaten me.

I’ve already sold out to eternity.

Died years ago.  Never told a soul.

(Didn’t want to start a fad.

Besides, the remorse of friends would have made me sad.)

Life’s timeline since then has vectored incoming from all dimensions

To uncounted unchartered aspects unreturning.

Each moment a mysterious packet,

Unlinked, monadic, yet fulfilling

-ly manifest.

It’s called the Quest.

I ran 7 miles in 80 degree heat yesterday.  During that ordeal, I had the *notion* that I should be carrying my cell phone on me in case there was an emergency in which someone wanted to contact me.  When I finished running, I found 4 ‘missed’ phone calls from a buddy of mine.  When I return-called him, he didn’t want to talk on the phone but pleaded for me to come see him.  I had planned to write, but sacrificed that and paid him a visit instead.  Turns out that he had been assaulted by three teenagers who then stole his wallet and about $500 cash—all the savings he had (and he's unemployed). 

Since that news I’ve grown very wary and unweary.  I’m paying extra special attention to everything in my world: liminal and subliminal, obvious and less apparent, seeming and seemingly not.  The open retractable dome on my peaceful golden aura has been closed and my psychic warrior probes have been launched as a perimeter defense.  It’s battle-mode, baby, ‘cause I don’t intend to be surprised by any such-like shit.  Yep, the racket of the cicadas—that’s what’s waking me up.