A single leaf, folded, can carry the image of a forest at night. We've fallen into one of these leaves. As we decelerate past the broken ranks of vegetables and pinecones, past the palms and their hidden reptiles, the monkeys clutching dolls, the trees that were once telephone poles and now are decorated with teeth marks and plastic leaves, we only see that everything is starting to tilt. The ground isn't where we expected it to be. Night is longer by a few hours here, inches are feet, and everything grows too fast, adapts too well, so that even the clever intruder stands little chance. By the time we hit ground, we will be part of the forest, covered with leaves like the people in Ovid, our teeth made of bad wood. Any pictures taken from now on will be contaminated with dust, dark, and bee mites, rendering them useless as visible artifacts.