At this moment in the Sand World, my brother’s long thin feet wait for the driver. He has no backpack, luggage, or jacket. A turmeric sun wide as the bardo swallows the blank sky. He has been awake for four hours and fifteen minutes. Life arises as if late to birth. First consciousness within the darkness: he chants the Yoga Tārāvalī in Sanskrit with a caramel voice. Next, invitation of bone and sinew to dance with mind and breath upon a torn rug mat. He practices Ashtanga Yoga, Second Series riding inhale and exhale like pelicans skimming the surface of the sea. His breath comes from somewhere in the back of his low spine, fogging the windows. He drips with the ocean of myriad forms merging and dividing themselves again until finally, pranayama and samadhi followed by a small cup of weak tea. His left hand reaches for a blue book light clipped on a brown vegan journal. A wedding band of three stripes spins a quarter turn as he clicks on the LED light. Platinum never breaks. No matter how loose it is, you have to cut it off. He lowers his desert head to listen to underground thoughts. They tunnel out in precise black block letters half a centimeter tall. He will fill one three quarter page and end the entry with a quick squiggle, meaning nothing. No burdens. He decides to splurge on a data plan and go diving. That’s what Dad would have done were he alive. Sonya and Bodhi will receive photos later, no chance to object. Alone, the happy see only happiness. My brother is in Egypt waiting for a cab.