Infinity drifting up, fading out, exhale: spaciousness. Light echoes through the cave. Darkness. A room with five lamps, three tall windows, emerald curtains gravitating to infinite carpet. Angular couches, a polished wood table. Silence. Pine trees. A little lake tucked into a hill. You were sitting on a bench by the water. The earth was murky with decayed leaves. The wind rolled the water in silence, lifted and caressed your face; suddenly you wanted to cry. Gazing around, lightheaded, you couldn’t remember your name… you couldn’t even tell if you were human. The water bloomed in gentle consolation, an empty calm mirroring the unknown. You accepted being alone, surrendered the crown of your head to the lake—exit into facelessness; swim in consciousness blighted by sorrow, smoke weed on the roof, try to remember a voice, something whispered, a moonlit face—exhale into night and think that whatever the question, the answer is no. You’re already walking home; for a moment the sidewalk mirrors God. It’s only 8 but dark and cold, late November. Mountains crack like vases, rainwater floods the hollow zones. The sky is storm clouds and limestone dust. The bosses take lunch in their cars; I am one of the workers, donning a helmet and coveralls, staggering downhill to dig for something unintelligible; a scrap of rusted steel. I’m looking through a cracked screen, streaming unlimited music, lost in a memory: we were standing in a hallway, telepathic, fell together, tumbled through the floor—into a void of floating lanterns; a colossal, shifting slate of language. You saw my emotion unspooling as a hologram. I saw a light of recognition in your eyes.