A bell sounds, quiet. I think we’ve found the place in-between –the repetitions that haunt our days and  carry us through the night, its serenity– But we can’t exactly remain awake. It’s been years since the last  time I saw her, but she calls out again and again I cannot shake the feeling that this place is where I’ll  finally see her again. I woke up yesterday. I went to work and I counted the number of swallows that flew  by the window. My manager didn’t say anything to me. The roof flew away (the meaninglessness there  consumed me anyways) and there was no longer a way to write about those places where I might be able  to see her again: I’m still with her. A flower will not bloom differently under her care, soil doesn’t contain  variant particles. It, in fact, will still swallow her, engulfing her with its trillions of tiny mouths, gasping  for air. I feel like I’m floating above it all most of the time because my pockets are full of everything that  ever has been and ever will be. But there is nothing dragging me from this infinitesimal scale. I am  repeating myself, and this room is breaking down around me. Its walls shatter, a force of will. The nails  claw at the floorboards while the ceiling throws itself downward. I melt along with everything, highlights  and shadows condensing into one unshakeable sound. My paintings destroy each other, canvases caved  in. My pockets are full of dirt.