Sleeping somewhere under silvery silvery city lights while I lie here in the pretty dark. All my electronic devices are charging charging and not ready, batteries not yet ready to live their lives. A crushed hat and a box of bullets among the piles of books. The desk is gilded with loose change and glitters silver and copper. Data is stored on disks and dead trees, circles of pitted plastic that laser eyes read and rearranged cellulose stained with pigments and dyes.

Head bowed in sullen reverence to my plug-in light box. Outside somewhere is the movement of air. People move within that movement, some with, some without.

I've been wrong, not dead wrong. The rivers flow over but not through on their way to the sea. We float along on held breaths and paddle weakly.

She was drawn by an excellent artist and never realized she was two-dimensional. I only noticed because the light hit her oddly and her shadow was thin, thin. I shook out a pill from my bottle of emotions and swallowed it without water. I plant flowers in the empty bottles. Soon I will have a garden and we can watch the world grow instead of our thin shadows.