It is round or a square with four sharp 90-degree edges.

It is smooth, like the skin on your forearm or the downy of anything new.

Or rough as a million-year old pebble strewn from some volcanic eruption.

Perfect is a sound, lulling you to sleep, water cascading through a stream of yellow aspens.

Or a cacophony of migrating terns, so loud they outcompete and drowned out any thought.

It is bright or dull. It shines into your eye hitting the back of your blue retina, shimmering itself up into your mind forever.

Or leaves you wondering about shades of grey, beige, muted tones of desert and dusk, dull by any definition but whole in their own right.

It hurts.

Perfect causes pain.

It chases you while you chase it.

Or it brings joy deep into your belly, relaxing the muscles of your throat, to feel that deep diaphragmatic breath that washes over each and every cell.

It is hollow like her singing voice which passes through you and ricochets around, until it is caught on the breeze and fades on an incline.

Or dense, so dense that the bristlecone trees that are 4000 years old twist and turn as they age year upon year and withstand the strongest winds in the world.

It is unstable.

Slick. Black ice in a black night.

And sturdy. Like that trusted pair of running shoes, slipping in those two feet now on the ground and body in the sky, relaxed, heavy and ready.

It is a finger, a finger of smoke in a mountain valley, a finger of fog hovering its way across the bay.