I awoke, and I was alert as if I had always been conscious. It was a strange feeling to be there, to be present. I lay in bed, looking at the painting. I wanted to know what language you were thinking in when you painted it. Or maybe no language. Perhaps it was a babbling stream of thoughts connected only by your personal history, ideas that wouldn’t add up to anyone else. Thoughts tethered together by the tiniest of threads strung together in perfect fragility.