the hardest way to get there is from the high ground. start here with a lifetime and cyclone down to a memory. the thing that crops out of the swirl. no choice can repeat infinitely except for birth. the fog of new eyes, swirling. the way something soft dragged across her skin and puckered it. goose flesh. even now. infinitely. he presses into me: clear is not a verb you will ever understand. she says he stands that way so she can feel him. Why do you hide in memory? why would you ever come out? she chides me for walking in the cold rain. I feel it entirely. I can smell the ocean, but it wasn't there. out there now. feeling it so hard it breaks. coming in drenched and pressed into another.