Electric man The elvish face reflected a man who was once a handsome legend. He studied it for a while noting the spacing, obeying the golden ratio 1.618. He stared deeply into his image, searching for coherence. Looking into eyes that have seen the growth of his own vision. Shifting his gaze to the propped window of room 3327 he shuffled his tired feet over, and craned his neck to see out. Street noise from below littered his mind, once he could pick out the individual hum of a gear in his generators, calculate the resonant frequency in his mind and make appropriate adjustments. Now all the noise irritated his dulled senses. His last remaining friend landed on the sill of the musty hotel room, cooing and looking for a handout, the misunderstood genius dug in his trousers to find a few bread crumbs. Receiving the gift, the bird fluttered off. "You're welcome my friend" he said, with a crackled voice. Looking over to the stained oak hutch, the only remnant of his lab, he began to visualize a new invention. At first the noise of his thoughts clattered like dishes in the busy kitchen down below. Then a tone of coherence found its root, followed by an overtone at a perfect third, then a chord of three with the fifth. His mind concocted everything in a beautiful harmony, a masterpiece of perfection almost unimaginable to any other. But then, this was the problem. Once the work was finished in his head, he struggled to manifest it in the real world. Perfectionism is a blessing and a curse. ---Dedicated to N. Tesla.