On that day-the day I was able to walk again, we meandered through building blocks until we arrived at an entrance, up four flights of stairs, and were sat down behind paper and paint in little plastic bottles by someone in search of form. Her floor is wooden and polished, and when I settle  something returns to me after unconsensually floating atop those linoleum-tiled hospital hallways. I am given the instruction to be very careful not to get the paint anywhere but on the paper. I point my finger towards the surface and then dive. Five hours sneak by. Clouds pass, horns honk, pages turn outside. The sky turns red. White-red, then blue. Green w's fly from the trees and I fall into a deep sleep underneath. Individual letters (characters) step out of their disguises-which I had recognized when I was awake, but now I cannot pin down their sounds or where they might sit in a word, and what that word might mean. They begin to morph into a space that I've inhabited both inside and outside my body. I listen, until my focus is so hard, it clangs it's metal head on whatever it makes contact with. Then I remember something. When I was younger, we would practice opening the crown of our heads from the trunk of our brain, which formed a pathway for any roots buried, to cast outwards like fishing into the light around us. That way, the light would grow in all directions, directionless. Where I am, all the metal objects within our architecture condensate into the air. The architecture (walls and doorways and rooms) has one spot in one of the rooms, which is soft enough to fall into. I go there, thinking of a small fire burning in a vast field of stars. In my slumber, I can feel the cold air breathe all across my skin and a creeping sensation that my body is shrinking into a very sharp object, then being blown up like a balloon proposing we fly away, and then falling, down all the flights of stairs into the basement of the building. My vision is swept into a corner by a very dark figure-who must have pulled the string to the single bulb down here, because only if I look away can I make out it's edges. I instinctively begin to trace all the layers of color on the surface, interpreting their distances by running the tips of my fingers across every bump and crest. When I wake up, laying in bed is the painting. It looks differently; moody, yawns and then yelps, wiggling about, naked beneath the sheets.