How, among a hall of chandeliers, does one firefly spin into darkness, twirling as a drunk who's opened the door to weightlessness?

I feel I'm struggling to hold onto the vision of things. I am an impatient wheel, distracted.

You are in my thoughts. You're not a light that is going out, but one that is reaching further beyond where you thought you would--so the fireflies feel strained, but their only growing in their influence.

Hold on-- the door to weightlessness only seems ages into the dark.

What the brain takes in, it can only transcribe--you think doors or the weight of bodies / thoughts are petticoats to the brain? No, the transcription is a letter the brain hands itself in the dark, having forgotten what was written.