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I fell down the stairs today and didn't notice until I hit the ground. I had caught myself, palms flat, just a breath above the concrete and I wondered why it was there. I was thinking about barcodes on trees. They jingled on metal tags, flickering on violin wire, cheeping modestly amidst the whir of leaves. They had meaning. They meant something. The trees were special? Maybe. They grew puse berries and shed them on the mulch into the pattern of cigarette butts. They grew choked and languid flowers whose smell made the back of your throat drip. They were labeled, nature, in a university way. Stocked and recorded, living beneath a lace of iron. The concrete was sleek, white. There was sensation in my palms. Not pain, but feeling. It was warmth, pink, brushing my fur cuffs.