Every day you lose yourself to the world. Where does the scattered self go? How do you know she is you at night, when you are alone and reunite? Do you feel your spirit wander while you go about your daily tasks, awake if not present? The mind tries to chide her with anxiety; yet let the inner light fly, let her be at large. I imagine that while I am at work, cheeks flushed in fluorescent lights, my spirit goes to rest across the street at Trinity Church, helping the candles burn in the wooden troughs by the heavy entrance doors and in the little cavern of the meditation room in the belly of the building built in 1872, which also houses Alexander Hamilton's gravestone. Maybe she helps shush the tourists, speaks to the bees in the churchyard, and lifts the ashes of the long-interred bodies into the thirsty roots of the flowers, trees, and grasses. The work of the imagination is repaid in peace.