A whirlpool. Surging water in the stillness forms a funnel that pulses grey and blue. Despite this translucence, something somnolent and bleary obtrudes. The still centre soars above and below and its fly-in-amber walls afford less knowledge than texture: first cut, fir coats, Narnian crunch of snow, the sting of sweat on his forehead. It is gradually clear that two men levitate within this willing suspension: laughter and love, a well-stocked cellier, a future joint mortgage and marriage of sorts. Did Jesus know how many would forsake universal grace for the body's natural particulars? Is this an education of the senses toward the transcendent, or a sinking into them? Why would truth not be found in the gurgle of a childhood plughole (always talk kindly to the spirits of the bathroom and there'll be fish fingers for dinner tonight) or the thrust of thighs? Hands reach toward the watery boundaries of the funnel: liquid mirrors, Cocteau's belle et le bete, the fear that faith is fantasy. Philologists confirm that the Greek verb fainomai takes two constructions: one with the participle to mean 'clearly is so' and another with the infinitive to mean 'merely seems to be so'. Hands breach waters' stillness and thrill to the rupture: a bunjee jump, trying regardless, waiting and see, my fears for Nana's RIP soul. This is a dream so wet I have drowned.