The city turns perfume shop. I can’t think at all with the jasmine so thick. Angels circle me like sharks, waiting for sweat or tears, anything wet and bodily. The stasis overwhelms, the sparrows are fucking on my porch. My friends and I joke about being in heat. It’s true, though, that springtime is a drug. The angels grow faint as the mosquitos’ whining, and then suddenly I wake up beside one. I remember, but do not experience, silence. Over and over, the forecast says rain.