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He once placed a nursing spider in the metal cage of the oscillating fan to watch the pinhole meteors glide across the room. Each baby anthropoid shed little threads that broke up the light and obscured all 4 walls. That translucent white blanket worked as scrim for his eyes and some sort of epiphany followed. He wrote all about it in a paper last semester

He was the kind of guy that crossed the hallways in his apartment with guitars that interlocked at their butterfly bodies. It was for discipline, he'd say, and it helped him slow down. But why it had to be guitars, I have no idea. Pretty soon he didn't play music anymore.

That was a long time ago and he really has improved since then. No more grandiose developments toward a more introverted and false-framed future. No more tiring away from society in his room or inarticulate scribblings on thick, archaic parchment. Really, he's doing much better now. I mean it.

People tended to call him Gabriel, but that's just because it's what he told everyone. Gabriel was really a Michael, but at home in Ireland his family called him David. His birth certificate from Michigan reads 'Arthur Proxy'. In 1969, just after this big environmental protest in Ireland, David moved to Iceland to pursue a career in the humanities. Reykjavik was his home for 5 college years so he settled in the wide terrain and amiable community that lived at the base of Mt. Esja.

In the summer the fog would creep in over the glaciers and fur seas of virgin grass. The wind would come back in the winter, bringing with it auroras and long nights that drew the Icelanders, and David, into passionate nocturne spirits.

I remember he came in during the first week of July in 1970. The complete memory of it is easy because David rumbled in at 4 am rambling about something remarkable he'd seen near the summit. We all followed him out of the cramped tavern and marched behind him quiet in a column toward the mountain. Twenty some odd people came along in their burly coats and beers to see what David was so excited about. Near the edge of town he stopped abruptly and stared at the peak we'd been watching the entire duration of the hike. Nothing special was going on, but to him the great cataclysm between heaven and hell was occurring up in the clouds.

I decided to walk beside him to give David a reminder that humanity still existed- that maybe he didn't need to create elaborate stories to gain attention- but his eyes stayed fixated and vibrant on her.

That's when I saw the flash. I turned and watched the entire sky light up like a pulsating quasar hidden somewhere behind the cloud case. The pulse was steady with life but made mistakes too here and there with the rhythm. It was almost as if the moon had crept a little closer and turned on a beacon to be noticed. I couldn't believe it. So I stepped back, and sure enough the pulses stopped. I stepped forward and they appeared again. The crowd behind me didn't know what the hell to think so I urged them to come closer and take a look at the anomaly. Before long half the town was collected near the steppes and stared in awe at what probably appeared to everyone else as a black stretch of same-old sky.

No matter how strange or unexplainable the mountain lights were, most of the locales went back to the bars leaving me and David on the steppes. I'm sure his neck had to hurt. This kid had been craning his neck up for hours, seeping in every last ounce of wonder from this phenomenon- but even if a man can see God, he will probably get bored with it after an hour. David was the only one left who wouldn't let it go, still, I thought that if I left him there- for some reason- none of us would ever see him again. I'm not sure why that sad intuition came to mind.

It took time to coax him into sitting down on the moss. Later I was able to divert his eyes from the mountain long enough to widdle away the fascination and make him aware of how long he'd been out there. His hazel eyes were tight and small from not blinking and led up to a mop of hair that he probably didn't think was vital enough to wash or comb. I asked him where he lived and he said he belonged up there, giving one more eerie stare at Mt. Esja.

Driving him home, he told me about his time in Iceland and what he hoped to get- or not get- out of college.

"What's your major?" I asked

"Neuroscience and dream interpretation. All of it. There's so much to know about the stuff no one knows about. " He stammered on, "An understatement, yeah. It's the best I can do. Does nobody care about what that was? I guess it wasn't that amazing."