Across the silence, it whispers befogged words that dance around my body and usher me into the next room. The floor seems soft, or absent, but I manage to proceed. It feels almost as if I was floating among the figures that appear before and beside me. They refuse to inform me about their roles in the game: This make-believe dream plays me like a puppet on a string, nudges me around, and finds pleasure in watching me tumble in wonder, and wonder why nothing has happened to me yet in this uneasy situation. I feel certain that this house is a body, and that my surroundings allow it to breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, faster at times, then again slowly. It is the rhythm of this breath that rocks me back and forth, leaves me adrift, causes ever-changing encounters with racks, fixtures, and all the objects that catch, hold, and return my gaze. Even though these configurations seem strange to me, I am certain that we are no strangers. They have always been with me.