The neonate on my chest, light as this fog-cum-drizzle that’s partially evaporated. They are suspended on me with light animations of breath. I’m some cloud, tethered to some larger weather system and subordinate to infinite pink above that unfolds the earth. I am in suspended animation, much like the cast of Severance in braided challahs of simulacra at Grand Central Station. I’m a station stationing in place. She’s wearing donated pink, a cloud of cotton candy with a baby head. She would be drawn as pink by binary boosters. She has shit all over the inside, and scares the boosters with brown. I’m waiting to poop, which has to wait for coffee and kimchi, which has to wait for this neonate to awaken to the charms of this household that crumbles and reassembles and through which wind travels against fastly. Some kind of fate that Pink Lady Opera comes on the speakers.