At the age of seven Ian would while away long summer afternoons playing under an old railway bridge where the rusted rails curved away into a bronze haze of woodbine and briar, no train had passed under the bridge in a long while.
This one day as he scraped away at the old bricks his hand slipped, his mind floated, needles of golden neutrinos skewered through him with a crack, straight from the sun. Suddenly the air was sweeter, his eyesight clearer and sharp as glass, so much so that he had to pull his glasses off. He looked around in wonder and to his surprise he found the tips of his fingers, up to the second joint, inside the brickwork, bonded into its hard baked atoms.
He pulled hard but it hurt to pull, so he waited. This was all a long time ago in the North East and no one came by. He tried scraping away at the mortar around the bricks but sharp pains shot down his legs with every gouge. Shifting scratches of light drifted past, seed heads in the swell, bumbled by the warmth breathing out from the bricks.
There was nothing to do but stay very still and gaze at the small things close by in this floating world.
He looked closer and closer, into the light and into the shadows.