A hook right into the left temple. Then: look down, hands and knees, blink to find color. The rest is faded. Open eyes reveal the pastels of stopped time. Shut them, psychedelia. Amoebas. Mitosis.

Finding north in the long ribbons of jasmine and honeysuckle. My nose is the most living thing for miles. It is the most interesting person I have ever met.

The yard is clean and well-tended. I’m in the center, but I stand near the hedges lining the perimeter. A sprinkler head is under foot. Soon, concrete.

There’s a heartbeat coming quickly, and there’s a pulse throbbing, and there’s a flash. There is a breeze, there is a thought, there is a fear.

Walking from one freckle on the porch to another, small steps, slow steps, the cellophane wrapping of the world crinkles but it all keeps going.

“Those guys…how hard they get hit…keep going.”

I’ve made sense. I believe I have. I have spoken. The response given was positive, as though I made sense.

They keep talking. The informal, one-minute rounds of our backyard boxing matches have ended. We are tired. We are all satisfied to conclude the session.

There is relief operating at different levels.

Sean Pravica is a writer and entrepreneur living in Southern California. His stories and poems have appeared in a number of places, including Bartleby Snopes and Red River Review. He has been nominated for writing awards, including Sundress Press’ Best of the Net and storySouth Million Writers Award.