I fly around the room after my shadow, covering the walls with what seems beautiful and stripping the furniture and myself of what seems unnecessary. The air feels unendurably full in here, the summer rain falling so thickly out in the dark shining-in-the-streetlights parking lot. In this dim sharp light even pages cast shadows on themselves; it transfixes things how wrinkled and crooked. The cicadas are thunderous (their clamor, how is it so much like the smell of sweat?) and the springs in the mattress hum like tuning forks when I lay my head down for a moment. There is an itch under my skin, and when I plop myself down on my bed and still my hands I could cry for restlessness and not knowing what ought to come next. What magic do I contact for understanding — what is it that my fingertips are not quite brushing?