Lines in a VHS reproduction of a motion picture waver in and out of focus. Let us demand from Charles and Ray Eames an ascent by powers of ten. We are bodies containing within us outer orbits. Passing between scales causes us to lose familiarity with our surroundings. Skulls appear, each of them covered with microscopic pollen: bits of ancient thistle, spiria, and hollyhock. The most complex structure in the known universe looks about itself in awe. I lean forward and whisper, “I am ready to embark on l’avventura.” Sarah and I walk through a distant neighborhood, her recitation of the Norse creation myth interrupted by and postponed on account of other inputs: yipping dogs, passing cars, the buzz of a circular saw. I despise all forms of imprisonment, but long for silence and solitude. Otherwise we’re just organizing behavior in pursuit of points. Dumb competition, a brake upon potential, stripping us of right-of-way.