Mandy Kant got her nickname of "Domino" because she always wore a combination of black and white clothes. She had no idea why she had made the fashion decision; it simply arose one day she couldn't remember and felt right. Her outfits made her feel she was there, present, a hinge upon which reality swung. It took her from seeing her six-foot-tall body as ungainly to elegant, from viewing the chocolate freckles on her cinnamon-colored skin as blemishes to beauty marks. She would often say to herself in a whisper that ended just ahead of her lips, "I am Domino," and the sound of it for just her ears would soothe any lostness pressing upon her from within or without. She intoned the secret prayer again and again as she walked to the funeral home just three blocks from her Brooklyn apartment, hoping it would work its usual magic, but her anxiety only grew. I am Domino, she said, noticing her black shoes and white socks. I am Domino, she said, admiring her black pants and tight white t-shirt. I am Domino, I am Domino, I am Domino.
This being, that is; from the arising of this, that arises.