A gigantic grey fish, underside sliding just overhead, just out of reach, otherwise known as March. Thirty one days long with Galaga blue spots and the smell of wet electricity, the blimp logic of a floating corpse. Who knew the end of it? The funereal pageantry of winter death. Here but not here. Tired all the time and no desire to do anything about it, the worst is hearing everyone else say it, too. Contagious, communicable. Leave me at least with the singular dignity of my misery. I am the only person in the world, after all. Connected disconnected, a kind of digital illness. And yet: places to be in the morning. Fluorescent lights, beige furniture, grey divider, wood trim. They put electronic locks on the doors to keep the employees from getting in. Too easily. A series of meetings. What we're talking about is cultural change. See the organization chart. See the new boxes. The competing arrows of who reports to who, a little Hastings. Moderated magnetic fields, leadership progression models, negative stressors, accountability at last. It's a new regime. It's a new day. Let your little light shine. Hello Future, the billboard says. It's April at last.