When December turned into January, an asteroid hit earth. Its wind blasted slowly like a star fighter, and with typical terrestrial extravagance, it chose to be a pest. Akin to osmosis, it grazed through our skin and colored our bones in with a lampblack crayon, staying within the lines like an adult.

Now we're cold and dry like arid ice, floating still in our cryonic incubators as we wait for this seven year interlude of misfortune to thaw. With nothing to do but think, we wonder if the Ship of Theseus is a bittersweet immortal soul, or if every last cell really does replace itself.