You were there that morning when the backdoor was left open, a portal connecting you to a birds-eye view somewhere in the Atlantic. What is it like to breathe air no one has breathed before? Sublime. But you had no control of time, it ticks without your consent. You see velvet ankle-length dresses in April, an iceberg on the horizon. It’s dangerous to be this close. So you turn your back, close the door before you can be split in two: potential vs spectre. The difference between romance and disaster is somewhere along the line, how far you go to stir the pot. On your couch, the ticking continues as variant: a beating heart, steady and unrelenting. Night surrounds you like a cave still porous.