It's just too far north. And the funny talk? The exasperated voices? And the snow? You've got it on your brain. Yes, right there. No, to the left. There! Yes, through your skull! Too much snow. It's whiting everything out, like your whole life was mistakes. Even if it was. Chairs are more relatable than people. Safer to cover with the mass of your body. No, sweet rolls are not food. They look so good, through the cellophane or shop window. From this impossible distance. They smell like the cum of otherworldly angels. Taste so good they make you close your eyes. Close your eyes for a few seconds that feel so good, so deeply personal and satisfying, they allow you, if only for a moment—the length of a chat flirt—to believe that you might have closed your eyes forever. The internet is redefining that word. Making "forever" into just another cinnamon bun. Icing melting to reveal a carelessly thrown together product. Dough, invariably, just dough. Too much whiteness. Too much snow. On the brain. And the silly voices? The cartoon running? It's heartbreaking. Like ice breaking, into sheets, the screams and squeals they make. Just being, just coming into being. They're only sweet for a minute. From this impossible distance. They're not food.