Precarious reached over the page into darkness. His arm disappeared to his elbow. Dreaming, he saw art and teaching. Dreaming, light and shadows. Not sure of This or That, but he knew one place provided release (from society and context), power (personal and communal), and joy. If the Thing does it for you, said therapist with a view over chimneys tiles clouds, why wouldn’t you do it again and again? Well, exactly, thought Precarious. What about fear and comfort? What to know about dialectic? What’s the work doing, where’s it going, why do you breathe? Precarious closed the book, lay on the strange bed, visualized creation in its own purity. Out in front alone, far beyond other voices institutional or individual, clawing, clutching, denying, controlling, polluting. Stay here, his whisper, right here.