Instead of a head, I have a window. Imagine tottering around with a double-pane frame. Every morning the shades roll up and I emerge through no effort of my own. After forty years, you’d think I could catch the string-puller, the life awaker, but even before the sun rises, the light is too strong to see. I thought I was the little man in the room, sensing, but found I am the senses, the window glass, a thin film of alive-ness ever watchful of breakage, blinking open and closed, open and closed, and closed.