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I am on my hot pink Barbie bike and all the world is moving together in the opposite direction as me. The year is turning cold, and in order to compensate for the world’s nakedness, people are turning out more and more layered.

I think that in such moments as these, human expression falls short because of what we lose in each layer of translation. The soul takes the first, sharpest bite. Sometimes, if we are lucky, this lasts for more than a fleeting second. Then the twist-bang hits our hearts, which, mercifully, can only handle so much and acts as a sponge-octopus interpreter, with its six strip tentacles attached to our sight, hearing, taste, touch, smell, and breathing. Or it runs straight to our minds, which, made out of millions of tiny swinging axes, chips and chops at the liquid sensation pervading each air pocket of brain tube, sometimes spilling out of our ear and nose holes, into the wild outside air, to be caught by a passing stranger or friend who is then drawn out of his or her dazed walk and, for the first time in months, notices the trees. These pieces which our brain processor makes, then falls from us with the soft tapping of our eye lashes or lips, each blink or syllabic movement loosening crumbs of what we have in ourselves, like the nodding of a cigarette butt spitting out fragments of ash and fire. These molecular inadequacies are never again our own, and, in a whirl of shouts and bangs and screams, it whispers into the soul of someone else in order to try again.