Small voice, a child, reciting a made up rhyme, about bubbles and a rainbow, and starfish. The room shifts and now it is a large auditorium of empty seats. The hum of a vacuum cleaner left in the aisle. Flip the switch to turn it off. Popcorn crunches underfoot. The lights go down and the movie starts. You’ve seen it before. The room shifts and the seat you took is a window seat on a large plane heading toward the sun, banking right is a slow turn. There are clouds below, but you wonder what is underneath them. A canyon, a river at the bottom of the canyon. Desolate land as far as the eye can see, but you can see further. The room shifts, meeting room, plush office furniture, a hand to shake and a smile to return, a deal done. The room shifts, driving a rental car to a nearby hotel where the rooms all look alike. The room shifts, white walls, equipment beeping out your vital signs, face looking down at you. The room shifts, narrows. A hallway. A light peers out from under the bathroom door. Sounds of a child splashing in the tub. You rest your cheek agains the carpet and close your eyes, listening to the sound of a made up rhyme. Bubble, a rainbow, and starfish.