2:38 pm. The office air is cold. I’m wearing a short-sleeved work shirt. No particular goal, no particular thought — just sitting. Just sitting.

Eyes closed, I hear the white noise of the city outside. Inhale — and before I even notice, exhale. No sense of obligation. No particular relationship. Just sitting. Just.

In this disappearance — the disappearance of thought, the disappearance of everything — can I light a small, intentional fire? If I were to light one, what tiny flame could it be? With no observer, no observing self — can I place something like what she called “juice” into this space? Can I place it for no reason at all? What would I place?

The heat of the sun. Warm and hot and excessive — that thermal energy. Yes. That.

The thing I’ve been able to feel most effortlessly recently: early morning, a small room, an open window, around 9am — the sun just risen, giving that warm and burning heat. That energy. Let me plant that. Eyes open or closed — plant it. Always, plant it. Energy that transcends everything.

Will it work. I’ll probably forget in 10 seconds. I’ll probably forget. I’ll lose it. Soon. As always. I don’t want to forget that burning sun. But I probably will.