Sometimes I believe in nothing and nothing believes in me. I just drift, drift, and drift. Even as they gather, some with hair like bouquets; I see nothing in their ovals. I see their features but there is no unity. I hear their words chirping but I can’t make sense of it. I hear ‘dream of the dirt, become the dirt. Salvation doesn’t thrive under any roof. You are a dabbler.’ They dissipate and it becomes silent. Sometimes I believe everything. Still I just drift, drift, and drift.