I've moved every summer the past five years, and getting ready to move again. Twice across an ocean, once down the street, and now, finally, backwards. Closer to where I've been than where I haven't.

The spaces around me wax and wane, one minute a coffin, the next an endless, empty plain (plane.) I long for outside, but not the one that surrounds my house, that ideal barren place towards which I gravitate. My dreams are full of new landscapes and fictional languages.