Oh to know you. Feel the phantom tendrils of your forearms wrap me to death like ivy felling a tree. To pause at interludes of family and obligation while this episode of life plays to curtain close. Listen to thunder thrum from mountains away. A chinook season raising extant hairs and beating plains with hail let free from a slackening palm. There is understanding that endures such torment. Even under the darkest quilt, restless and solitary, it’s still just like getting mad at the weather.