When I will my limbs into motion in the morning and trudge through the brushing of teeth, the pulling on of jeans, becoming a thing that breathes and eats, I am a vessel. Everything has a weight and a mass and an order. It seems perfectly unsettling then, that such a solid existence can give way to such a fleeting world, where logic is wholly distorted down endless tunnels of impossibility. Thus the waking life of the physical realm, among the benches I can sit on and taco trucks I can frequent, is simply a panorama from which my subconscious gleans a muse and paints irreplaceable, invisible artwork on a canvas of grey matter floating about in my skull. This is me trying to visualize it as best I can.