Brisk atmosphere and fish bones on the napkin. Smell of pine fresh, the only whisper left from the view. You are on a satellite with sharks and campfires, and sometimes the atoms make the seasons hazy, marbling confection in an endless dish in the infinite stardust buffet with no here and now, only exponents of pretend. You make out a dial tone, the grammar of light coaxing you towards: softer. Next spin, you stop pretending with such taut and sure posture, catch a whiff of a passing object: message in a spaceship saying something indecipherable and unknowable but you catch it with your second hand. What to do now but throw it back and walk towards the tree again.