In this strange season I have found myself in a foreign land. I have been trying to get my footing, but the ground tilts just so, back and forth. I think I am on a spinning plate. I think it's about to tip, it might all smash on the ground. A tree has grown right beside me, its vines twisted in knots and its leaves purple, like the oxygen didn't quite reach as far as it should have. The sky is made of ink, like when you grip your pen too tight and its neck starts to bleed. The air is heavy, like a sleeping dog's breath on my neck. If I tried to run my feet would feel full of bricks, like my stomach, like my head, like my throat, like my chest. I think I have swallowed seashores of sand. I think I can barely move my hands. There is an unending procession of people who keep giving me keys, but in this desert there are no doors. They look hopeful as they hand over the metal, but when I drop their key on the ground, they just shrug and keep walking. I think they're trying to help. I think it's not going as planned. I'm not sure how I got here and I'm not sure when I can leave. I keep looking to the edge of the plate which has the faintest hint of daylight, wondering what would happen if I could get there. I have let go of dreams of flying. I have let go of dreams of running. All I know is that I'm still alive if I still remember how to stand.