A simple shift in mass, that is all that it takes to rock forward. The curved wood leans with me. It leans until the two tips meet the ceramic floor. I pause for a moment, to feel the cold surface gripping, sliding against my toes. Soft linen wisps against the hairs on my flexed calves. When I tilt my head upward and touch my naked scalp against the smoothed backing of my chair I am always pretening some grand illusion, of falling backward, downward as into a pit with no end, a boundless motion in one direction. But no. This is only the twin brother of forward motion, a negation of my former momentum, so that inevitably I remain seated in the same place. This, my home.