The world turns liquid, reels and rolls as gravity veers at angles; what was still is blurred and whirled. Revolutions echo; you lie still for hours, too weak for vomiting and still too dazed for prayer. No whiz-bang device can repair your inner ear; doctors try shifting crystal shards, like sad wizards. Sometimes it’s magic, sometimes not— they never know. They never know what to advise if that trick fails. Focus your eyes on horizons, one whispered once, It helps to refocus the brain; the brain resets. The brain can reset in the ways my father’s did. When his tumor nicked a vein, cells drowned in blood. His bloodied brain regathered words, word word by word. Grace is not crystalline, but grit that squints at pain. Grace is the will to retake things, thing thing by thing.