Bubbles of glass form in the air. The air is so thin I touch it. I grab a piece and it cuts my finger off. Red. Red everywhere. My ceiling is a horizon. The orcas sway. They’re scarlet purple, color of blood. They transform into waves curling up on top of each other. A great white whale swallows me. I lodge myself in its transparent heart. The air is psychedelically dusty. I bathe in its droplets. I find myself again below the horizon spreading out in my room. I dive horizontally and the waters cover me. I am full of scales. I push my body upwards with my fins. The surface is powdery. Finely lines alined one behind the other, and stainless steel spoons. Branches crack the ground. I cut off a piece and plant it in place of my missing finger. I put salt on it. I put salt on it.