The pale blue rolls in, weighing the same as your last page. Dilation of all sorts, sweet pollen and eventually, honey and yum. Light you interpret as serene and blooming, before the nausea of knowing what speed you’re hurtling through the uncontainable sets in. A new story won’t write itself, but the bees know what the flowers want from the way they taste. A cluster of lonely strangers delivering soft blows to each other, playing pretend in the lily-strewn haze.