The mind has already left the body. Feet up, head down, a trick that empties the skull until the only question left is the one that keeps circling: where is my mind? Not as crisis so much as dazed inventory—something once housed has gone loose and is now way out in the water, see it swimmin’.

The Caribbean memory doesn’t explain the loss so much as stage it. Animals hide; a little fish bumps close enough to seem to talk, then stalls on wait, wait—and the refrain takes over again. Surreal, half-comic, a little unnerving: consciousness treated like a creature that slipped the leash. The band holds a settled, driving pocket underneath that freefall, soft lead against jangling forward motion and high answering voices, so the body stays locked while the words keep insisting the mind is elsewhere. What sticks is not collapse but the cool gap between them—the self still moving, still asking, after the thought has already gone out to sea.