Sentimental personhood, entangled in sunlight as pop songs spiral in the mind’s player piano, repeating as if punched holes in paper might cultivate joy out of emptiness. Here, the serpentine pothos in a glazed clay pot makes love with gravity, dwelling in place. It is viridian and versed in sine-cosine relations, something other than joy but just as full. Does math live somewhere under the metaphor? Incommensurate warmth of the skin of the world, its undocumented matrix of possibility, how sensation and memory constitute our being. If a person can live in the hook of a sweet song or the twist of an oblong cutting, what else can it be? The robots emote, the plant sings, and the human calculates.