Tisha dreamt of the light that seeps down through the canopy of old growth forest, drifting finally to rest on a loam of humus. In this place, sentience is rightly perceived as stillness. Everyday city life overturned through the imagined primordial lens of encompassing wilderness, everything that hums and flits and flashes falls away, leaving this shell-of-Tisha, this oblique presence. Even in this light, the dream light, soft and downy in her quiescent mind, her mother’s voice drifted, gravelly with smoke and unfiltered territoriality, shards of motorcycles and manufactured bass lines brushing against Tisha’s veil, a temporal safe haven known even to her dreaming self as fragmented, not-enough. Never enough. Arriving at school the next day scattered, stretched, frantic again. To be yelled at by her teacher. To be yelled at later by her mother. To be yelled at by her mother’s boyfriend. Get this. Do that. You’re stupid. You’re never enough. You’re never good enough. You’re never whole enough. Pieces of a self being eaten.