Three small lights, each no larger than a pinhead, floated in the pitch dark. They were somewhere below what she knew was the ceiling, in front of what she knew was the window. Each had its own personality. The red one was bright, sharp, strong. The blue almost white light seemed to be losing its life. A flashing yellow light made the narrowest angle of an obtuse triangle with the other lights, and was so diffuse its center couldn't be seen.
She searched for the center of that yellow light, aware that she was not awake. She was in that sensitive place of pure feeling that also wasn't sleep. In this place she knew what a door or ceiling was, and could give a light a name and color. She could move her arms and her feet.
But she could neither open nor close her eyes because there were no eyes. She could not speak as she had no mouth. She only had fingers attached to no hands.
Her fingers and the pitch dark knew each other but the lights were new.
She was aware of her body turning over on its side, pausing, breathing, as the yellow light continued to flash and fade without its center even being in the room;
aware that her body lived in a place that was sparse of people, houses, and things, where her mind could have first, second, third thoughts with huge uncertainty or conviction over days, months and years without fighting with anyone.
There were chances upon chances to find centers of lights inside a room that may be outside a room, even on another planet, and somehow, that meant happiness.