My eyes are wet, sticky, but I notice a glow in the corner. A big bright halo of light on the carpet. It can’t be a stray light coming in through the window. The curtains are closed. I blink through the tears, and it’s still there. I lie there, still as a statue for a long time, and try not to sniffle too loud.

It looks like a star. Perhaps it’s a shooting star that has landed on my floor. I should make a wish.

But I can’t string words together, even in my head. The sound of me cursing myself still rings in my ears. So, I watch it. I wait for it to reveal itself as an illusion — a mirror angled the wrong way, or a light from the street peeking through a coincidental crack in the curtains. I wait for it to disappear.

It stays right where it is. I struggle to keep my eyes open, to see what it will do next, but in time, I lose the staring contest.

six

THAT DELICIOUS DREAMY FEELING

仏の顔も三度まで

Even the Buddha, after three times

In a quiet forest upon a mountain, on a cold autumn night, a wide dirt path winds through an assortment of trees: thousand-year-old oak, majestic redwood, thick reedy bamboo, baby spruce, short fat pine, many others with no names. The sky is red, the grass is a tawny brown, and the moon is bleeding. There are no sounds except for the tap-tap-tap of a wooden stick on the dirt road. There are no living creatures, save one: a young man down the road, walking in silence, tapping a long stick before him.