Like every morning or afternoon or early evening you will wake up stumbly and largely separate from the self with whom you went to bed as well as the one you will be somewhat soon, after coffee, a shower, inbox, air conditioning, fridge smell, comfortable chair. I can tell from looking at you now that in the throes of sleep inertia you will be unmindful of everything but these, how your bare feet feel, how your head hurts, how your knees are killing you, killing you, killing you. Your thoughts are a circle then and into that circle nothing swerves, not yet, missing what happens later, what reminds you of whatever you don’t know, what sets your circle in motion. Until you walk out of your building and onto the street, possibly, or until you are in the hallway, you will be this smaller, motionless circle, and then you will widen, will collide with all the other circles, and all the objects. Maybe the time you have in this state will shrink gradually, be smaller daily, be frighteningly gone one day. Before this, there will be a time in which you are awake and alive and walking into chairs and tables and the counter and the toilet and sitting on the edge of the bathtub and throwing out a sub-room temperature coffee filter full of filthy grounds still wet, and the circles of all of these actions grow outwards, and are still in your circle, your tiny circle, your small, selfish circle, in which there is still room for me.