We’ve been here for a long time, in this place (in our places). Our footing seemed so sure, our arms out for balance. How funny to find that we were walking on water in its gaseous state, our feet catching an imaginary rock here and there. From inside it looked like frozen cotton, or a blanket of warm froth, ‘though when we touched it our hands vanished. It makes me wonder what is wrong with this pane of glass (my breath makes a fog as I draw). When I think of you thinking of mountains, the steel machine you’re in making a mist of what was once the whole world, I hope you have a window seat, that the view is clear, and that you are seeing what I am. Your breath makes a fog as you sleep.