When we take off our heads and reach inside our bodies we will grab the loose hanging end of a magician's scarf, the one tied to a thousand others, the one meant to unravel. So we will, as we should, you and me, pull until the end is found. And there, when we find the end, the green after the blue after the red after the yellow, will be tied lightly to it a silver ring glinting its eyes in this midday sun. The kind of ring that encircles us, a ring passed down from a grandmother or a mother, the work of continuance. And beneath our heads in this leftover mass of us, the ring and the scarves, the nod of our heads to the magician inside, we will remember what it was like when we tricked ourselves, you and me, into thinking that these thing could happen. The loss of reality was our gain, our control, and the stitched seam of magic marker on our necks was evidence that we at least believed in something once upon a time.