It is morning. You wake to the rawness of the world. It is an insubstantiality, a collection of wisps, an emptiness that fills one with the exhilaration of flight, the breathlessness of dread. You do not see its bones for it has none. By midafternoon you may have negotiated and wangled and constructed and willed into belief enough of a world so that by evening, you may dance, so that by night, you may sleep. But tomorrow morning you will wake to find yesterday's action, yesterday's resolve and yesterday's construction as transparent and formless as air.