I’ve been sitting here for several days without moving. From the window I can see that the street below is a cloister: the vow of silence practiced by soundnuns, nochant / no one around. From my follicles sprout a thick steppe weed, peopled by crouching figures, like me part-plant in appearance. With each layer my mass accumulates; I resemble the world, and when I finally move, it will end.