During dinner once, when I still lived in Los Angeles alongside the city murals and heat constantly emanating from the concrete, Will Alexander and I were in the midst of our regular banter, discussing the state of the world, cosmic energy, the apocalypse, everything that we were surrounded by, the boxes we humans insisted on living in and, of course, the weather. We were partially discussing all the things that writing seemed to be about in those days (it was summer, then and still now, LA was surrounded by the threat of fires) and how petty some of it all seemed to be. Will remarked about the pettiness of writing simply about love affairs, and that the only thing writing could really be about now was the weather, not love affairs. Or perhaps, love affairs through the weather. Things seemed so very dire then, and it’s hard to tell if things seem more dire now, or if we’ve been exhausted out of direness altogether.