The embryo in the brainwaves thrashing around on the brainshore would be a horrible job. Processing info in sidereal chunks sent from a dying star called childhood. Sending ripples into the afterbirth of the giant gaseous afterthought that barely acknowledges your existence. Blip, blip, blink, blink goes sonar in the eye in the forehead of the nothing that perceives you as a speck of dust fledging on its lash for a moment then shhhh I feel that way too. And then I feels something else the flux of a moment where the particles cohere to produce another version of Ben Mirov. Alone in his apartment. Sipping coffee in the dream. Most people are at work. It’s beginning to rain.