Waking up to the first quiet morning in months, I stretch, I wash, I stroll, I waft towards the smell of cardamom, I read that everything died some time ago, I think of we who remain here in the dream of that death, our understandable confusion, the way we gather by the stream, with the trees, for water, then hypnotized by the endless flow of meaning. I join the others. We do our small part of honest work, and then we escape, in search of a stream, the protection of the canopy, the correct path, correct alignment with the satellites, the type of algae that may grant us just one more life, clues about what the others have seen. We return inside to play a different game, we investigate our hands and feet, we root for one another. We gather around the table and consider, in laughter and solemnity, our lives, the food we have eaten, the time we have wasted. Following a moment of recognition, of savoring, of resistance, I leave the others. I begin to ascend the hill when I hear and then drift towards the sound of live rhythm, and I find myself among the redwoods swaying in warmth, luck, constant flux: we have to keep leaving and remembering, that’s part of the work, or is it? I leave the rhythm, I remember that I have accidentally stolen a key, the rhythm leaves me, I worry, I plan, I stroll, I tell myself everything is going to be ok, I stretch, I wash, I sleep.