You say you don’t believe in anything and I’m inclined to agree in a belief that none of us have, nothing exists. Yet there is this one impossibly perfect moment— dusk. This air communicating with your body that accepts that it is pleasant while your eyes see shadows deepen and suddenly, shifting, syrupy and smooth, there is a rapidity and collective attunement. Here we all are, cooperating, not believing in anything because our minds are far too devolved to ever articulate a belief, though we try and we try and we try and we try. This mat and that rosary and that kirpan and the lotus and the cross and the Qu’ran. Your hands meet one another at your sternum, but you’ve been told this centre doesn’t exist, that there is only a caged crowd of organs composed from the ocean we now stand by, and you don’t believe differently. And then there is a fuzzy stirring, a shifting tide, a breath of wind and sudden focused light of a mammoth existence that is there, always and always, not being believed in.