I am lying in my bed. Bed is good. Warm is good. The light reflects from the buildings, from the cars, from the empty beer bottles lined up along my wall. This way I never have to go outside; it comes to me instead. I'm not lazy, just...sick of moving all the time.

Why is it that when we stop moving we become less worthy? Is it because we are less likely to be found? Hmmmph. Maybe I don't want to be found. (the sound of my value plummeting). Unless, of course, you're not really looking for me, just stumbling upon me. I wouldn't mind that.

Did you know that every year more Americans die from plane crashes than getting hit by lightning? Of course you did. Not very surprising, is it? See, that's what happens when you move. You get hurt.

But when you stand, rooted, waiting for the sky to strike you down where you are, you're left well enough alone. I have a secret hope that one day, the lightning will stumble upon me. Because that way it will be a surprise, and surprises are even better when they come down from the sky and find you instead of schlepping all the way up there to stick your head in the clouds, only to become disillusioned when you can't see anything.

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