He double-locked the front door, skipped into his room, and drew the curtains. He held down the power button - one, two, three - and the world was banished. He placed his silent phone down on the nightstand. He checked the garage door - securely locked.
For Skips, this pre-meditation ritual of solitude was almost as relaxing as the act itself. He was in control of his environment. Nothing could reach him here, but he could reach wherever he wanted to go.
He unrolled his mat, sat down, took a deep breath, and made the room disappear.
Skips' deliberate, slow breathing gave way to an involuntary rhythm, following his languid heartbeat. From time to time a muscle jumped - first in his thigh, then on his left arm. He noticed, but didn't worry. He relaxed tension wherever it was found - ankles, shoulders, and above all stomach.
He felt as though floating, or swimming. Thoughts came to him as he treaded clouds. With each stroke, he sent them away on a current of his own making.
"I don't know." Push. "I don't know." Push. "I don't know." Push.
His rhythm slowed further.
"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know."
Alone in an empty world, he knew only that he didn't.
He was ecstatic with this realization. But his new knowledge didn't stir his heart or his chest. Instead he kept on going down.
Gradually he sank until the clouds were replaced with the darkest blue. Still treading, he reached depths unimagined, and certainly unremembered.
At last he came up for air. He blinked, then stood up. Drawing open the curtains, he vowed never to forget what he couldn't recall.