There is so much pleasure whenever I close my eyes. How easy it is to be in the world, distanced from it. There are no flowers here. I can’t remember if there ever was; if they have just withered away. I can’t feel the contours in the dirt, and dirt is always dirt, and all that lives must decay. Even angels fall so soundlessly at the touch of your lips. All is silent, and all is dark, and all is life, and all is white, and all is matter, and all is death, and all is noise. Inside my head. There’s a one-way street, never-ending ending in the sunset of the first rotation. There’s a car, and there’s a me, and sometimes there’s a you on my closed-eye vacation.