Part I Opening your eyes as a blue glow illuminates the inside of your tent, a shrill noise like tearing paper, the door flies open, and the hair on your neck stands as the frigid air fills the tent. The warm glow of the morning sun contrasts with the snow-covered ground. Glancing around the tent, you notice that your partner has already left. Stepping out of the tent, you feel yourself sinking into the powered snow from the night before. Donning your goggles, the world shift

I thought hydrangeas were meant to bloom in October, but they’re no longer growing. The flowers by your empty room wilted, their stems bowing as if mourning with me - or maybe it’s me mourning them, mourning you. I remember when you arranged them, humming a tune I can’t remember the name of, but can still feel deep in my chest: a melody that lingered even after the final petals fell, a love that remains, even when you can’t hold someone’s hand anymore. The hydrangeas outside

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? - Phillip K. Dick, but from the perspective of the sheep I wish my coat were real. Not the pretty-looking cotton stuff that stays looking good in the smoky-gray of a San Francisco morning post World War Terminus, not the factory-lathed fibers that were made to never catch dust, but real wool. Warm and comforting, sometimes stinky and tangled, but real. I want to feel the warmth and chill of normal weather patterns, eat grass and clover tha