The outside world has never been more alluring, calling from the windows, stretching it’s fingers of light inside and pulling my mind out with it. I talk to my plants, I watch the leaves unfurl. I buy myself flowers from the bodega just to watch them die because their decay maps time in a way that the days of the week no longer do. Plants become my language, a way to speak about human connection and contradiction. Rooting ourselves so deeply we are stuck, having desire for the unknown yet finding comfort in routine. We grow together to the point of coming apart. Hopeful, hopeless.