I stand on the border between the sky and myself, holding a cloud in my hand that breathes as quietly as my thoughts. My scarf comes to life and reaches upward with its own hands. So many hands! And they have always been within me. Sometimes it seems to me that I am woven from air, not skin, and therefore can only hold what has no weight. I think about what dreams look like when you touch them, and whether they retain their shape afterward. Everything around me is not a landscape, but an extension of my dream, in which I learn to let go of the sky.