I watch people gripped by fear for a future that hasn’t arrived, and when I try to say gently, this panic is over something not here yet, it only deepens their distress. As if naming the illusion offends the illusion. Why should I try convincing my twelve-year-old daughter that Sun Ra is more interesting than Chappell Roan? No seventh grader is listening to a man who claimed to be from Saturn dressed like a pharaoh. She wants something earthbound and bright, not celestial jazz riddles from another age. I lent Soozi a book about consciousness. Weeks later, she asked what enlightened means. The moment I tried to answer, I realized trying to explain it obscures it. The light you point to goes dim as soon as you call it light.