Every night is the same story. The ground is laced with seeds; the staff is stuffed with notes, the sky a mess of black balloons. Neighbors in the distance cough expensive drinks up in the toilet. Their barking rounds against wet porcelain. Another balloon makes the sky fuller. It is difficult to imagine this life doesn’t go on forever. I found a shovel and decided on a spot to dig in the park. It would be as good as any. Four nights I spent sifting through the earth, in its layers of wetness and hard tissue. Small mountains grew behind me, watching quietly with the stars. I pushed the dirt back every time I abandoned the hole. Nobody thought anything about it; my neighbors reassemble their interiors in the bowl. They cry on the telephone and I become the floorboards to hear it. I want to know what’s happening. On the fifth night I hit something solid. The moonlight made it look like silver, but i am not a pioneer. Pioneers are buried under skyscrapers. I am buried under knowledge. Black balloons are contagious. What I found in the park were bones of things that used to walk. Everything we hide is still intact. The ground is laced with seeds. Nothing grows of its own accord. Another balloon makes the sky fuller. There is little room left to dig inward for peace.