“It is…” “A machine” “The body is…” “The mind.” “The body is a machine.” “The body is a machine” “To transport the mind” Mike Engel, at a park bench, deep in conversation with himself repeated the words over and over randomly until they formed an arbitrary litany to his subconscious mind. He took a slug of whiskey and hoped many brain cells would die – maybe even the right ones. “The subconscious is dark matter - all consciousnesses unconscious to and of itself. It moves, molds, makes the worlds.” Leaves swirled at his feet, tossed by a slight breeze. One of them broke free and blew past his cheek. He snatched the leaf out of the air but it crumpled to dust in his hand. He held the remnants in his grasp. The physical laws of turbulence had caused that leaf to blow past him. Gravity defied by the wind, air flowing from high pressure to low pressure and affected by the Earth’s rotation. He stopped and shook his head violently. “No,” he said aloud. “It doesn’t work that way. There is only will.” He had to stop all such scientific thoughts, all mathematical reasoning. It was a trap. “What’s asleep when it’s awake and awake when it’s asleep? The mind. The mind is. The machine, the machine is the mind.” He pressed his eyes closed, mouthing his litany and breathed deeply several times, concentrating on his inhalations and exhalations. A few minutes of deep meditation and he was ready. He held his fist with the crushed leaf out into the wind and opened up his palm. The particles of the dried leaf remained as if magnetized to his palm. One of the particles of leaf dust trembled in his palm. It danced across the surface of his palm and moved in a circle. Soon other bits joined in until they spun in a tiny whirlwind on his hand. They spun faster and faster floating an inch above his palm binding to one another. After another minute the leaf was reformed in the air. He opened his eyes and saw the leaf reconstructed blocking out the sun, but in an instant it collapsed to scatter in the wind. One particle of dust smote him in his eye. He staggered off the bench, tears forming kneading the back of his hand in the socket. Water flowed and the mote was gone. He felt woozy from the efforts of his magic or perhaps it was the liquor. He leaned against a streetlamp and caught his breath. Mike wondered if the leaf had ever really been there, or if it had just been an intoxicated dream. That was what was so difficult about magic for Mike. As soon as an act was committed the rational mind seemed to kick into overdrive and question if the miraculous act ever really happened. Maybe it was just human nature. Professional athletes had to psyche themselves up before every game. Generals had to give inspiring speeches to their soldiers. Even tribal warriors like the Picts had to tattoo themselves blue and run naked into battle to get their warrior powers flowing. Constant doubt was only rational for one immersed in irreality.