Last I remember, the weather man was calling for rain, a seventy percent chance, emerald green pixels drifting over half of Ohio. Maps and mathematics can’t hold me now, my mind an untethered balloon, I feel like I’m floating slowly out in space, a lonely satellite pinging signals back to Earth. The sports desk says the game is in overtime, that the home team is up against it, that sometimes a draw can feel like a win. I think there’s breaking news coming in, it’s so hard to tell these days. Gunshots accompanied the last song of the night, an airplane has disappeared without a trace. The seas are still rising, a bomb has gone off somewhere far away. Content loading, please wait, skip this ad in five seconds, the video already has a million views. We still say things have gone viral, even during a plague. The death toll is rising but we remain unfazed, large numbers don’t scare us anymore. The hush of static dulls my senses, but I can still hear the flicker of voices peeling through. They say the returns are coming in, one percent reporting, please stand by, we have a big projection to make.

When I wake, the rain has turned to snow. The noon sky looks like a deep well, the frozen earth mirrored glass. A commentator says the parade is about to start. Is that cheering I hear in the distance? The weather man says it’s turning colder, that this winter may run long.