I go up.

To be taken slowly, savored like chocolate, enjoyed like wine. Rachmaninoff has provided suitable accompaniment. So read on:

Through the haze I see the most beautiful golden hot air balloon ever made waiting for me in a broad green field.
I run and run until I'm safe inside and then, up, up, up I slowly drift.
The ropes creak in the wind and I feel my heart gently melting till it diffuses into liquid light
and flows, glistening to the furthest extremities of myself. The earth spreads out like an open
story book below me, and I read it lovingly even as I fly slowly away. The sky is mine and I hold it
with both arms and recite sonnets to the sun.

I remember who I am.

I remember who my Father is.

I remember that I am loved.