I began in an attempt to address a clear, logical problem characterized by hard rationality and technologically-deterministic perspectives. I faced the premise of accelerationism and the nihilism of the deeply online. My initial attempts to “open a window within the screen” constantly felt like failures in the moment that they were made. When I tried to reflect on them and articulate what I was doing, much of my language failed me. I approached rationally—regurgitating theoretical and art-historical evidence that I had skimmed for self-defensive measures without ever really considering that these objects could potentially speak for themselves, as they have started to the longer I’ve lived with them. In retrospect, part of me seemed to know what it was doing, while another part consistently failed to absorb the gestures and atmospheres that were so important to the creation of the work. At the moment, my attention has drifted to the background—distracted by encompassing mists, patterns of weather, echoes.  I begin (or attempt to begin) with waiting and finding. Ursula K. Le Guin, whose words are the primary source of peace within myself (and the inspiration for much of my attention), reminds me: “waiting, of course, is a very large part of writing.” I found someone I could trust when trust was in short supply. I begin in bed. Outside the window is a brick wall. The sun has yet to stretch a ribbon of warmth through the narrow hallway between. This won’t happen until noon.