I wake up on my back. The ceiling behind my eyelids rises and narrows — compressed air vibrates across the room. I am sinking deeper and deeper. My dreamless body appears around me, skin draped over its ribbed scaffolding, a hard landing of joints and cellulite. I don’t know if I am inside or out. For now, we occupy the same matter. I feel the tendons and veins stretch and constrict. Probing, tethering, holding me in place. Maybe if I keep my eyes shut, the superposition won’t collapse. I accidentally take a breath, and the space in my limbs displaces me. The moment is lost.