The sky has collapsed and now it sags. It feels as if we're living inside a deflating balloon. We're vulnerable to light; it won't nourish us; it will only betray us. Betray. How can we convey the decayed state of the membrane housing us? Everything is either dead or dying. Only the mouth of the eye lingering in a state of paranoia will shatter the illusion of solidity. Kiss it. Taste it. Is it sweet? Or bitter? And why can't I tell the eye about the "I" I infer from it? We, each and every one of us, embody delusions of the sense of self, which permeates the air around us, defining us only when we take a breath. Where am I? Locked in a slab of meat ignited by inferences drawn from the air escaping your lungs.