In the greenhouse, tomatoes on vines grow at the speed of gravity. It’s a circadian paradise tucked in shadows, time ticking to fruit and flowering, far away from the dying sun. Instead of bursting into flames—what, did you think you were fire?—you morph into bubbles grasping for something to hold onto. You are here for them, they are here for you. Everything else is everything else. Peace and thunder compound and the dandelions rush in.