A chair. My eyes move open, the sound of ten thousand raindrops, beads moving across a table, pearls or cheap gems, their surface carelessly striking others, cares of entropy absent in a realm where all is just data. My back is supported, I feel healthy sitting in this chair, straight after years of this bend, a foolish mistake of youth, posture and pain. Grass waves at my feet, not like a breeze, but a literal wave, like the hand of one's first lover after the first time. A shy goodbye, so I give it a cheeky, overdone wink, amused at myself. They told me that being able to laugh at yourself keeps you sane, so I do it again and again to make my sanity into a parachute for my mind, as expectations and delusions fall, I will fall slower, so by the time Jupiter's pressures crush me, I will long have been taken by age instead. The sunlight on the ground flickers around, like markings on a globe, quick, ordered, but not square, each turn as decisive as it was planned for weeks ahead. I can feel there is a pattern there, my fingers want to use the air as a sketchpad, but I fear that hope more than I fear the forgetfulness or emptiness in my head. I get a feeling of movement, see the grass a ways out move in irregular ways, offset from the rest, and get a feeling of motion in the air above. A distant chant, like three notes from a bird, comes to my skin, and I feel light itchings over my body. I sit, knowing how much effort they put into this. An escape from the cycles is near. They are singing the songs of my undoing, and it is beautiful.