In Buenos Aires, that 2nd floor apartment filled with car exhaust grimy air where the sunlight rarely entered, I would sometimes wake up with a feeling of exhaustion from unrestful sleep and try to sit up and look where I was; but my eyes were stuck shut and my arms and legs, uncomfortable as they felt, were pegged to the foam mattress.  Stuck  there unable to move the completely gravitized weight of those denser than lead limbs, unable to separate the skin where there should have been an opening for my eyes, only able to hear the pitter patter of tiny nails tapping and scratching the floor above my ceiling.  The empty sunken-ness of my stomach over took my chest influencing the shallow breaths of sleep to turn into deep uneven inhalations and exhalations of panic.  The panic of internal emptiness.  The panic of a lost soul.  I woke up on these occasions and wondered where I was, in which of the many beds I've called mine, then would come the flashing realization that nor did I know at what point in time I was.  I could be that 10 year old visiting "the grandparents" in a cot bed in a tiny room filled with the noises of a kitchen and her little brother kicking the wall trying to get her attention.  Or the 7 year old in a big new yellow room in a new house bigger but not as comfortable as the old one 500 miles away; staring at the mostly bare yellow walls, stricken by fear of the indefinite grandeur of time and space.  The same emptiness fills and I try to think who I am.  Who is it that occupies this body which I call me?  A name?  A name is only what you make it.  I feel my own existence, but am only all that I've ever been in my life.  All of those moments of suspended dream state reality from different years of this life being lived at once.  Yes, at that exact moment I feel that I've known all along what is the course of my life.  I felt it when I stared at those yellow walls and felt their indefinitely divisible proportions, that tiny corner of yellow paint up there by the closet split in half, then again, then again, but it could be halved forever with all those molecules of atoms of neutrons/electrons/atomic particles of who knows what else.  All moving, changing places but still being that same corner of yellow paint.  At that moment in Buenos Aires in South America, I am all at once everything I've ever been and lost in the falseness of time and space, alone with myself as I am alone in reality.  My whole life is that instant.  And from the depths of my cranium where the essence of time is stored, I come surging up as if through the entire evolution of man/earth/universe/space/time in a matter of a fraction of a tiny second a gasp for air and I'm bolted up standing beside my bed.