It was only after all this that The Hypnotist arrived for class on our final day. She handed out business cards. The septuagenarian scowled at me and left the room. I dimmed the lights. We all closed our eyes. We breathed deeply. She suggested, as a kindergarten teacher might suggest, simply, calmly. There was no magic. And yet. We picked up pens and in some altered state, be it doped with milk or dumb with motherhood, be it overripe, leaking, pained, hormonal, sleep-deprived, searching, stripped, emptied and agape and at the feet of an invisible, unnamable force that is as big as the universe and then bigger still, there in this vastness I wrote and I was not myself but, then again, I had not been myself for at least seven whole weeks and would not be myself ever again and maybe I was actually the German stableman who found there, on the emerald mountain, this engraving: Why can we not drink the moon? Why is there no vessel to hold it?