I used to be a portrait of myself, like a water creature with magic. How to know the midpoint of a lifesong, how to know when to take a breath and listen. The train’s suspension of disbelief, our density of selfishness. A novel that reveals the impossibility of connection. How we cannot help but push and moan on the next car. Now I’ve managed to forget the language of ants. I am outside the typewriter. What is a body? Looking across the boat’s intersection of silence to turn the blankets of consciousness. I only know how to throw my voice in the page. What resembles the human body is broken wholeness, a slow way of dismantling identity. This process that reverts back to sleep.