Nothing Happened Last Night serves as a membrane for psychic contact. As in silent illumination, it speaks from the interstices between moments of longed-for values that bind existence, of impermanence, imperfection, and our indivisible interconnectedness. These are poems inscribed on the tissue thin skin of the back of our hands before we are born. They ask where our minds flew to last night, what of the unknown companions in our dreams. They bow but never break, honoring the eternal now.