I communed with Michael Crighton last night, as I inhabited the body of a little black boy.  These days Michael spends a lot of time in fields staring at the moon.  He’s still full of stories. I yearned for a taste of that magic.  Michael drives a beat up old blue Ford pickup truck. It sprouts patches of luminous grass from the window. When I pointed this out to him, he tore off a handful from the window and gave it to me to eat.  It had the crunch of a cucumber and the flavor of rain.