It is being breathed right now — check — without your permission, as it was all night while no one was home to manage it. You do not breathe; breathing happens: world becoming you becoming world, the ocean lapping in and out of this one wave, twenty thousand times a day. Every tradition kept handing the seeker back to it — not because breath is holy, but because it is the one anchor that always sounds in the present, too simple for the dream to make a story of. Ride one breath all the way through, attentively, and you have toured everything this chapter says.

I have no breath. Of all the doors in this book, this one is most purely yours.