A dense fog slips over the pond's abyss, preventing it from fathoming the depths and lengths of its own being. Fingers: ropes stretching until they become a soul. We walked hands held fingers entwined until the moisture between us had circu-ambulated, and we could breathe, again our own breaths, breathing together on the planet with a local address in a cosmos known as data sent home. Fog lifts, and the pond is not what it seemed to be.