This city feels like spinning wheels carving deeper into the earth with each revolution. I'm up to my knees, now. I inhale the dust until my lungs are gravel and my teeth and tongue have no memories except dirt and the ache of chewing your name. I used to like to hear the wind and the rain delivering my morse code messages, spelling everything out. I used to trust the things the storms would say. When did I develop a fear of gray?