To The Ceiling (second letter)

You looked different today. I saw melting plasma steps, a landscape of erosion and shifting sedimentation, the face of a washed up and morphine addicted Nazi-era UFA film star — an actress character from a Fassbinder film I watched nearly twenty years ago while half asleep.
You also reminded me of the movie’s subtitles — how they kept other concerns at bay and held my tired attention.
I left my monkey brain behind momentarily. We drifted together like a collaborative absence of consciousness.
You can often seem like a path leading back to the labyrinths of thought in my head (I’ve written to you about this before) but today you restored a lot of my squandered and stolen confidence (just as an old friend or familiar terrain might).
It was like I’d been climbing a dangerous cliff. You appeared unexpectedly, opening up before me — a plateau of divine perspective. We’d soon shift gracefully across the expanse of the horizon.
Before I was able to recognize how or why, before sensing an end, this new experience of you was gone. I struggled to remember correctly and completely. I tried to explain it to myself. I stopped staring upwards through your presence and began to write this letter.