If each of us is a book, our pages are perforated and magnetic and could be blank for all their ephemeral accuracy. Though we are sequential beings, our narratives are not linear. Memory is written on holographic stationary, recounting an ambience of history, physics, and expectation. We agree to coalesce by using every day and ordinary expressions, identifying patterns, telling time, and working around the weather. But the blindingly beautiful weight of our potential is hidden in the archives of our library of human dynamics. The truth is immutably infinite, and we function as reflective tricks of this light. I expect to spend my entire life growing acquainted to living things.