Resistance is the first thing. *And how do you know Resistance?* Diffuse gaze. Somewhere distant. Like I'm looking at my feet resting on the ottoman through the computer screen that is in reality blocking my view. I drift into some thought about nothing. *And what brings you back?* I don't know. Suddenly I'm here again. I also feel that my fingers are slow and I begin making typos. That's another sign. In fact, I'm doing it now. *Is there a pattern to where you go?* Memories of feelings. No specifics. Although one in particular *is* specific. In it I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom in Michigan with the window open. Early September. I'm listening to a Yellow House album and suddenly time completely stopped. I knew everything. I was completely done. Completely finished with the entire endeavor. Infinitely connected. Like I could feel the weight of the air and the bird songs were silk threads floating through the atmosphere. Everything was dense, but in a gentle way like a weighted blanket. I return to it often. *And what about now?* What do you mean? *Is the air heavy?* The sides of my head feel like separate limbs. The left side is a metallic plate and the right side is oil. My forehead is slipping off. *What else?* It's hot. Way too hot but I can't stand the noise of the air conditioning unit. Not now at least. I'm pausing. Running out of steam. *Relax for a moment. Close the screen and look away. Read the book.*