There’s a water tower lying on its belly in a field of bright yellow corn. It’s been a number of years since it fell. It made no sound, and yet in the middle of a night of broken sleep, I remember the moment so vividly. Waking in a cold sweat fearing the worst, another part of me has broken free—another chunk of the man I am escaped to some cosmic stage where I wish to dance but can’t because here I am—too fearful of leaving this place by my own hand. The tower resembles a bug rolled over onto its back with its belly facing the sun. The paint flakes. The structure degrades. Yet, much like me, it sticks around. I guess I have the advantage of choice, but really, it’s no choice at all, for the choices were made long before any of this came to be. The only reason I’m here is to decipher the meaning, and yet so often, I find there’s no meaning at all, just the recollection of a random number of days where I age while somehow remaining the same. If I reach out my hand, the corn is warm. It’s the same as the pillow beneath my head. And yet the pillow is also cold because it’s drenched in the sweat that pours out of my head like sparkling lemonade. It’s like the earth beneath my feet, which is hot and baked like a potato, but also wet and damp, if you dig a little beneath the surface, that is. If I kneel down, the metal beast casts me in shadow, much the same as the threat of the end casts my hopes and dreams in amber. There is still light, but it doesn’t touch my face. If I breathe in, the air is scorched. I wish for more, and yet the nature of what I am prevents me.