They will tell you that there are things alone, things gone, things wearing shirts that would have been ugly in the 90s. They will tell you. They might tell you. They will say something, likely mostly nothing. But they will have said something even though the thickest meaning present is nothing. The season is an ebb. A tide left out too long so the mud has dried. I know the tide returns but there are days where it seems unlikely it ever could. You do not know what to say to this doubt. I do not know what to say to this either. Whether the climate changes and the seas dry up or we take ourselves off to some other way of thinking about people I cannot say. If I never hear the self-satisfied loudness and laughter of men taking up space like this it won’t be soon enough. And if I stop trading labour for something we just made up I will probably start trading it for something else we just made up. This is what happens when things like this happen. One thing is a straight swap for another thing. It’s all straight around here. Tiresome in its lack of imagination. Tiresome in its insistence on a binary back and forth. Just leave they would say. Just go. Just leave it all behind. But it is never that simple or orderly it’s all just a big systemic mess. Too pea-brained to think ourselves out of anything we hang here inventing technology we can’t even use to save ourselves. The recipe is repeated, only not to perfect it.