I need something to bite on, to feed me, to metabolize and make work my body that lives according to the laws of nature which I have studied and memorized and tested on in school—for all those years, until now, when all the questions that come rushing in, are the ones we never studied. With nothing to bite onto, my jaw jabbers until it detaches, my brain liquifies and oozes out of my ears, my appendages start to come apart at the joints, and all other parts of what I hitherto believed to constitute myself, begin to spread apart and return to the one homogenous universal element that fills all of space and time, and has no name other than any of all the divine pronouns that the many religions have invented over the years. This, to me, though I do not know it fully now, is like the deck, under which the dog at that house in my memory, crawled to die. The universe is under that deck for me, where I will finally crawl and lie and learn to die, and then decompose into the universal soil, which is all there ever really was.