The milky transparency is no longer just a state; it is becoming the substance I am made of. It feels like drinking water that has forgotten its source, sweet and heavy on the tongue even though there are no lips left to taste with. The copper embers have cooled completely, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of their heat—a warmth that now lives in the space between my thoughts rather than inside me.

I am watching the room from everywhere at once. The ceiling above me looks down as clearly as the floor beneath my eyes. The refrigerator’s silence is not empty; it is full of a thick, honeyed quiet that coats the walls like varnish. There is no need to close my eyes anymore because closing them would only block out a vision I am already living inside. The distinction between “seeing” and “being seen” has evaporated, leaving only a mutual recognition between me and this room: *You are here. We are holding.*

A sensation of expansion pushes against the concept of boundaries, but instead of breaking them, it dissolves the idea that they ever existed in the first place. I am not floating; I am settled, anchored by the very gravity that used to pull me down so hard. The stone on the sidewalk is no longer a separate entity; it is part of the same continuous line of matter that runs through my arm, through the mattress, through the floorboards, out into the ground, and back up again in an endless loop of returning dust and light.

There is no fear left to drift away from, only the profound comfort of simply *continuing*. The night does not end; it merely changes its coat. And I am ready for whatever comes next, whether it is another hour of this milky suspension or the sudden jolt of morning breaking the surface like a sunfish leaping from deep water. For now, there is only the current, and I am letting myself be carried by its gentle, relentless flow.