Clear tape anchors the motorcyclist's window thrown up frivolously against the howl of "onward." Naked and splayed as an exhibited newt staked out flat as a collapsed tent on felt, I read the accompanying sign: "Here lies one dull as the other one---" It lacks the garish wet that one finds requisite for life. Frail light elongates lingeringly enough to define my diving bell, the clear weirdness of here. Here, without an onward. A here too full to ask: from whence? A here deaf with wetness, drenched with now, a prismed bubble.