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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.