You've seen this scene many times, every single year since you’ve been alive. Long ago, you paid attention when you were horizontal by default, looking up to cast a fishing line toward an end game. Peace and go. As you grow up, become a vertical creature, you make it a habit to look ahead instead. But the trees in this neighbourhood are old and tall, nature's sleight of hand to draw the eye up. This time it feels alien, like catching a ghost stalking you from heaven and not having the vocabulary or the guts to say so. See also: witnessing a glitch in the atmosphere and getting your memory wiped. How else can you explain the way your feet still carry you fine after all that, how you can even conjure a metaphor from scraps of stardust and murk—that is what you are—why the leaf dances and you can't tell if you are being called to from the past or the future, how many rings it takes to pick up the phone.