Buy the rumor and sell the fact. There’s a floor on despair and a ceiling on hope, and less and less distance between. Rain again this morning, then the sun came out and the earth breathed with it until the afternoon became luscious, gravid with light. In the evening the warmth fled the stones—late light glimmered and witched in the stand of trees between buildings as the sun dropped into its narrow channel. Fire, wet with fire. The sky pressed down indifferently as if we hadn’t supercharged it with our own indifference. I live always underneath, wishing I didn’t care.