"How I Made My Millions" Radiohead

It's like holding my breath and closing up my eyelids until they hurt and freezing the image in my head and zooming in and out, rotating it, trying to make indellible the nuances of its dimensions. And saying, "You're here, right here, inside, inside. Forever." But how can I make permanent that which was born from circumstance? A new smell, a distinct new blue in the sky, the lovely settling of food in my belly, a song, this one--an intermingling of forces cosmic in aggregation, chaotic in origin, never to happen again. How can something so pure and strong come from things so easily dismissed as the haphazard occurences of every day? I wish I could remember you, that easy smile, the way you treated others, a self-acceptance so vital it made others believe they too were deserving of love.

I was one of them. I was inside your orbit. And the faculties that held me up so well--analysis, skepticism, truth-finding--you suspended in your anti-gravity. But I have changed. I am smiling now, the kind whose gentle curve upward tries to conceal what the eyes cannot deny. I have the symptoms of a beautiful life, but I am sick of everything. And people know it from my eyes. Sick of what's around me, sick of the disease that's eating everybody around me, some know it and are struggling amid others who are unwittingly promoting its advance.

You said once you'd never leave, that you had moved inside me. And you said not to worry, you said, "You don't need to move to the mountains to be a Buddhist. It's up here." You pointed to my head. "And here." My chest.