[ WP ] In 2079 , While you are in your death bed , a light starts to appear . When it 's getting brighter , you hear sounds , and then the light is so overwhelming , you feel that you died . You are your newborn-self 78 years ago , and still remember everything you were taught .

6, 36, 38, 48, 51, 17. The winning Powerball numbers on my 18th birthday. I repeat the numbers over and over in my head ad infinitum. I wo n't be able to write them down for at least two years, so they *must* be committed to memory. Although I retain all the knowledge I learned in my last run though, the part of my brain that controls my motor skills still belongs to an infant. 
 
 My poor mom lifts me onto the changing table. I've shat myself again. *Sorry mom, I would use the toilet, but I ca n't actually make it to the bathroom as a two month old. * My apology comes out as a series of gurgles and coos. She's a wonderful woman, and I relish every second I have with her. It's a shame she gets cancer in fifteen years. 
 
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 6, 36, 38, 48, 51, 17. Ah, the first day of kindergarten. Guess who's going to get put into the accelerating learning program pretty damn quick? I'll give you a hint, it's the four year old that's made it through 8 PhD programs, that's who. The temptation to prove Fermat's last theorem on the board is ever-present, but I ca n't make too many waves. Not until I'm eighteen years old at least. I've made that mistake before. I got cocky and showed off my intelligence and received national attention. The butterfly effect is *real*, and if I expand my sphere of influence too far, by... say... becoming the most famous child genius in the world, those six numbers I've been saying in my head wo n't be right when the time comes. 
 
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 6, 36, 38, 48, 51, 17. I've written the numbers down a dozen times, and emailed them to myself, but I just ca n't stop thinking them, it's become a ritual. The 10th grade winter dance is coming up, and I'm having a crisis. All the pubescent hormones pumping through my body have caused my baser instincts to battle with my morality. The cheerleader with the locker next to mine is having the same hormone issue, and wants to jump my bones. To put it bluntly I'm a chick magnet. I'm very average physically, but confidence makes all the difference, and as the girls like to put it `` You're *so* mature for your age''. *Yeah, no shit. I've lived twelve lifetimes, I'm mature for your grandpa's age. * She runs her hand down my arm and asks me to come to her house later, her parents are n't home. *Jesus Christ. * I struggle with this every time I go through high school. Looks like I'll be spending all day tomorrow justifying my actions tonight. No matter what decision I make, I will hate myself in the morning, that's for sure. 
 
 
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 6, 36, 38, 48, 51, 17. Ah, graduation day. In three weeks, I'll be eighteen, and a brand new millionaire. 383 million to be exact. I'll probably do my usual routine of flying to Hawaii for a couple months to celebrate, then I'll be off to travel the world. I've been so many places, but even in twelve lifetimes there's so much more to do and see. My best friend Peter walks up to me after I cross the stage. 
 
 Wait. I have n't met Peter yet. I do n't meet him for three more years. That's new. New is bad. 
 
 He walks up and grabs my arm. `` It's me, Peter.'' He says with an anxious whisper. 
 
 `` What? We've never met.'' I play dumb. Something's not right. 
 
 `` Dude it's me.'' He leans even closer and whispers directly in my ear. `` 6, 36, 38, 48, 51, 17.'' 
 
 My eyes grow wide, and I feel the blood rush from my face. 
 
 `` You need to come with me right now.'' 
 
 Looks like I can go ahead and forget those numbers, I have a feeling this universe is *way* off track. 
 
 

