When it’s 46 degrees Celsius there’s no such thing as separation—you really feel in tune with the world. I bleached my hair in solidarity with the reef but ended up reflecting the political climate. There’s no use crying over the scarcity of pine lime splices tho, they’ve reduced alongside notions of spring into a powdery nostalgia. You can ask me how, but I’m still catching up on the history of endings, confusing my acids with my alkalis. From on high, the shit and the fan sing in harmony. You tell me, a choir of corals cheering sounds just like a solitary synapse sputtering in the distance. I cup my hands over my ears and pretend they are shells. Sometimes (even in an echo chamber) my dendrites refuse to align. My star sign, ambrosia, lies descendant on the floor. Right by where no waves idyllically break. The shoreline recedes and receives a conspicuous comb over. It always used to be like this, you say, stroking my hair. Cycling to the beach we reminisce how commercial jingles used to be more catchy. It always used to be like this. About all of us used to be music.