Sitting in bed, I am actually floating. There are no surfaces, only colors. The sound of a truck going by is a grind, a rush in my head, spinning. Something is missing, hanging loose. Wild card. Something is present, but unseen, a breath, a trace. There's a silence that's a silence of coming nearer. I feel the feeling of becoming un-alone. This morning the sun carved red scars on the wall. When I turned my head to look, to see what was there, those scars were an ominous gate to someplace else.