In diaphanous spring I told myself each day this would be the day I’d tell her or kiss her or something, but winter had been masochistic and fall conceited, and by April she could see right through me. Summer would be intense and consuming, and quite productive, leading to another conceited fall. In winter I would need a light box, but had none. My hands would go numb from the shot such that running them under the cold water fountain made them burn. it was the only way.