Tonight, the mystery of acoustics: how a sound so clearly coming from an airplane above can have no apparent relationship with the space of sky from which it seems to fall. How the eye will try to follow where the ear has already gone, how the eye will seek the one star that's not a star, that instead is moving steadily northward, blinking red and green and shining steadily white in between. How a truck driving down a highway moments later will have red and green running board lights, suggesting the prevalence of patterns that might mean nothing but that you keep seeking out anyhow. How you will rue the sense that six months ago, in your hands those red and green lights would have become something much more than themselves, before your attention started to diffuse and fall away. How you reassure yourself that you will be able to make that turn in your thoughts, beyond your thoughts, again--to follow an echo with the eye until it becomes a light that becomes a truck that becomes, say, a latter-day silver fish of thought--though perhaps not for a spell, not just yet, not until you can grapple past the things around you (undergrowths, overgrowths, chokers all) that could care less whether that distant roaring ever catches your ear, much less whether you meet its eye.