The tingling mass of molecules of my hand hums, spreading calm fuzz and a swell of light sunrising over the surface of my planetary self.

South of hip, thigh muggy, grainy, brandy-bowered, temperate but wintery, a solid feeling, but with salmon-scale tints. My feet are mountainous, curved, ivy-bound upon the island floor in the moorland morning of my calves, from which frowzy silvery limbs stretch and twine and reach to rich tropic light; solar plexus, liquid beaming.

A young cheerful southern sun spreads its mediterranean warmth across my chest, honey yellow light through brushed wool white clouds, bobbing and dappling through the willow branches of my sunlit mind. Fine light tendrils of yes rise up my face, lightening the corner of my lips, flowing round my eyes in tiny rivulets, rising and then falling over my sunset scalp.

There is light clench at the back of my head, and a tiny knot of resist lobbed under the cranium, which I let drop down. The hold falls, and I fall with it, down into the well of the body, dissolving into the pure warm black milk that forever glows in the eyes of those who are not holding onto themselves. After a few unspeakable moments of this, I will rise and leave the house to meet them.