portal. Try as I might, I’m no astrologer. At best, I can architect an unsound explanation for how I might feel. About why you might be feeling the way you feel. My best guess is not what this ancient wisdom intended but an intuitive relationship to a theory. A wisdom. A science. Like poetry. We’re always in the middle. Never at the beginning. There is no end. We are different stories intertwined. Different parts shift over and over like tectonic plates. The seismograph measures the distance between lessons. I feel all of this while I watch Luna sleep beside me. I listen to Rafi sleeping in the next bed over. A few days ago, we soar thirty thousand feet above the ground. We are at once weightless and heavy metal. Above the land. Above oceans. A storm. And another. Above life. With life. Within. Without. As above, so below. Moving faster than it feels. It doesn’t feel fast. It’s been eight months since we left one life for another. There’s a lookout. The vista. From thirty thousand feet, I can see we’re somewhere new. But I don’t know where. Before I saw the lava. Before an orthopedist told me my patella is old. Before. Before. Before. All those past lives. The illusion and the certainty. I kept driving down a one-way street the wrong way. I made a habit of it for about a week. After the call from the nephrologist, the one that we thought was routine. The one where his voice hung at the bottom of the line. First, he said