I feel success in ways she touches my back with her fingers, or in ways we can be alone, in the scent of coffee or bread, in icy air that freezes my moustache. I feel success in the morning, between buildings, the slanted voices between bodies, the cars driving past cliffs of the lectures, everything given another day, ourselves given a further chance to live on the earth. How we keep coming back, keep waking up, keep going to sleep. How we lose things and find new ways to cook or sit. I am astonished that life developed on such a molten planet cooling off, how the plants turn in a spiral of the DNA we have making us live and return to how we are able to know, now with new bodies, remembering how it felt to be left alone as a child two years old, in the summer, on an afternoon, or the awe felt as a four-year-old when first seeing a row of huge poplars swaying in a fast summer wind. We go back to where we are alive, in textures of plants, in brightening shade and curves of what another person says.