relevatory sightings

Relavatory evidence of any 741 sightings remained unexplained.
Unexplained in the normal sense of humanly observed phenomenae, there exists a thousand and one such cases, frogs falling from the skies, will o’ the wisps, lights reported by pilots during relatively normal flight patterns... hey, what can be explained, can be boring. The voices found in Alfred’s head went unexplained, random syapse firings? Audio and visual hallucinations of the most disturbing fashions illuminated his studies; fired his imagination, made his fingers dance. And a study of what? Through screens of the foreground of his habitual silence encumbered drabbled and failed him upon sleep. A humble and pardon drafts. Shaking hands, evidence, jostled man... he flailed in his sleep and talked with me. we are talking in the car, we stop beside the falling down house in time for his jitter dance of feeling. How does one pull up beside a downdraft in the mist of vapor upon the windscreen. Air is rare these days.
As is the knowlege that we that we vanquish daily, when the devil dances upon our doorsteps, how are we to know? These vapours and breaths and tell tale signs are vanished to obscurity. While the great unknown entertains our bedside and inserts dreams of horses and fiends we lie in oblivion. Alfred breathed unnoticed these very same fallings of water upon his windscreen. They were swept away as he drove across the mountainside by the steady flailings of the cars wipers. The snow coalesced as it hit the road. So much left unsaid and better still unknown. It forms unseen patterns that strike us as we travel the paths. His tires left tracks up the mountain.
Do the tires leave a trace several moments before the retraction? Do his tires retract? Can he retract his previous statements? Can we go away tonight on the hope of the looming highway in the gathering darkness? My car travels faster in the off-note right hand lane often and I cannot read the signs. He went away, that way, dot. dot. peculiar that you should still dot.. that I am still lost dot... after the service nothing was spared dot.... a screaching retraction of all the lies and suddenly it was dot.... there, dot. Dash... his tires went screeching this way and that across the barren snow and invisible patterns that he cast into them. patterns and formations that are our longevity and prolongations of the human race. Was he almost there? He did not know. The air made screaming patterns of his breath that went careening this way. The radio picked up merely AM stations this high in the mountains. Garbled and bassed out notes of the fraility of the human voice. Was that a star? The radio shut down. Black. Was that the universe? An infinite jest, a far cry from what he had known as a boy staring through a telescope. Imagining pattern in the pinpoints and random? patterns to be found in constellations.
Finite in a random yawn. The wain and fruitful wandering in the flick of his wrist was a grace that none had ever seen. He had unmade his machine from a thing of grace into that so many movements of an unkempt habit. The pardon from the nervous pointing of the compass... comes once it points inward. This moral compass bends oddly once it enters the fantastic and is so easily adjusted in a gesture. This he imagined as the take off of his imagination. He took his hand from the radio dial. He exited the car. The snow fell upon his head. He listened. Silent. The snow drifted and cast off light that illuminated and simultaneously blotted out the stars and the future. Cast off light crossed his thoughts and twisted his thoughts into knots. What was his reason? Why was he here? Why had he driven eight thousand feet? To see the snows and elevation? To dream out amongst the skies and constellations, to walk the remaining distance towards light, civilisation, patterns and the skies.