Notice identity crisis written in clouds, shearing wind suggesting loathsome winter, and six o’clock sun insisting it’s spring. This one’s for all connoisseurs of viscera. Apples blossom on cheeks—orchards of confusion. There’s a dim, distant light that got us through summer, a sullen light burning through the trees. Shadows of leaves are now affixed to the sponge cake ground, and the sky’s hands pluck desire from withering vines. So much for safety in numbers. A dismal spirit of grace disturbs visions of sleep before the darkness of night, daring us to embrace the grandiosity of this chaos.