I imagine it a place so fragile. Souls hammer themselves paper thin against the firmament and peel away to flutter atop pockets of light. Here, the sun’s pale yellow glow never dims, enveloping each soul. Moth holes blossom across their faces, adorning a hundred deranged grins. They are always morphing into what they next want to be: a dandelion hair, the wisp of a cotton ball, a fraying edge.

But you are not them. It’s midday, and you spend it with mud in every crevice of yourself. Toes squelch in clay and fingernails rake your mandibles, filling with coffee grounds and deep earth. Every day is spent squeezing your limbs. Wrists to forearms. To elbow to triceps to scapula. Hips and thighs and calves and feet. You gather the flesh on the back of your hand and see the light filter through. You pinch your cold ear as hard as you can, cartilage crackling between flesh. And you marvel at your body. Your solid body.

To you, the sun is a peach. Its heat-brewed juices drip down your forearms and so you open your throat to the sky and let its abundance coat your esophagus. Elation bubbles in your fingertips until it gathers in your sinuses and lowers your heavy eyes. When you wake again, sunburnt, colonies of ants will chain your limbs and pincer your sticky flesh. You will reel to the one who listens and confront the absurdity of having but one stumbling tongue to articulate it all.