Gravity is misbehaving. The rooms in the apartment are rearranged. Reality ticks detectably and yet life feels like a dream. It’s not a nightmare. It’s not settling. It is transit. You can sense where it’s going, but the way is ambiguous. Some moments have the fuzzy intensity of holding your breath too long. Sitting down seems natural, but the ground falls away. The floor feels as foreign as the open air. What will happen from here? The canvas is blank but shaped like where you’ve been so far. Where are the paints?