I thought about the sleeping grass and sleeping gravel as I fingered my keys on the way to Steve’s lot, wondering, "Will they wake and know where they are?" I thought about the slip of soap stuck in our sink’s windpipe, tediously wearing away with the water. I wondered who I’ll be again when it’s finally disappeared. I thought about ‘Sonata’ meaning ‘sounding together,’ a feud between abstractions struggling together until one comes out on top. I tried to figure out how I feel differently when the searching cry of a single goose descends from the sky, and when the chaos of many falls like parcels of food and mail dropped by aircrafts.

Finally I thought, "Maybe there will be signs saying ‘SIERRA GO WEST,’ ‘SIERRA WAIT HERE,’ ‘SIERRA NOT FAR.’