I was born with this dry, contemplative existence. I look out the window today and see the flakes falling, crystallized, tiny infrastructures and entire worlds. I feel nothing for these mini galaxies and I do not let them melt on my cap. I do not let them touch my tongue. I am soar and preposterous, vain inside and outside of the looking glass; both reflections make me sick. Looking around, I am overwhelmed with unassuming dread, faces with no eyes or words that speak truth. There is little capacity for love in this world.