Other lives are lived before floating back up into rumple of covers, Saturday morning remembers other occasions when light threw the same hue onto bedspread, the hundreds of occasions of waking up wiping dust from the eyes and head, the world blinked back slowly into intermittent existence, the underworld snatched at in puzzle pieces soon disintegrating, dissolving into the blanket’s floral pattern. The cats of Saturday morning, the quiet feet and play of shadow on walls, window weather and clink of coffee vessel, browning toast. Life on pause. Liquid languor. Knots in wood call the eye — here is where you fall in to those other, less obvious places. Doors to protect spaces, drawers to siphon away what the every day proffers to the occupied self. Occupation of the self as hazarded by hapless entities, those contending you’s emboldened, embittered by the secrets of autonomy. The cat cleans herself in quick motion, noises from the outside from disembodied neighbors. Alone-ness like a well, sprung from darkness and water and wishing. All the Saturdays spent content within the cloud of thought, fields of words by windows looking out. All the lives lived by being, all the spaces inhabited by the traveling mind, wanting always to be just, wholly, one.