I am levitating in my bedroom, swimming in the air as if it were a liquid; gooey, golden, and slow-moving, like honey. Vibrations from the sound of Ginsberg’s vintage voice causing ripples and waves that crash at the shore of my body. The tactility of the recording, the noise in the silence, how it takes form and density creating a heavy, gravitational presence in my room. I watch a bug nearly invisible fly to each corner of the pale yellow walls. A completely unpredictable pattern of flight, I relish in watching the spastic movements of this tiny creature. I float above my bed, feeling the caress of nothing. Mind buzzing with liquid beauty, simmering. I can taste it on my tongue, the words I hear, I can touch them with my tired fingers (they are as tangible as belly hair). How they enter my ears and drip through my body, slowly filtering through the tissues of my organs. How everything in my mind is calm and alive with transparent bliss, bliss that you can jump into and never touch the bottom. I am outside of time, and all of history is a clear tube fashioned into a spiral. I can feel the room Ginsberg wrote the poem in, how it too had yellow walls, how it was filled with this viscous magic, and how he too could see through the spiral tube of history.