Something about my being in darkness, in deep quiet, translucent petals of plum trees on the pavement, rotating like a planet troubled by gravity shifting from one edge to the other. Unable to put my finger on a bulb in a darkened closet, or step through a canyon covered in wildflowers, rolled up in blankets without a leaf blower or chainsaw in sound sight. Who can sleep with a tennis racket? I tried. All night I tried. Did that mean I needed to place a pillow over my head, suffocate my own self-interest for the single purpose of a good night’s sleep, or better yet, purchase a pair of earplugs from the corner drug store, the kind used for international travel? But there was no escaping a noise growing louder the farther I drove; tied to my own high stakes, I realized this was no noise, but an alarm shattering the sky. I pulled over to the side of the road and waited for it to pass, all the while knowing, this was a second coming.