Weak, weak, weak. My house makes me feel strong. I carry a totem of my delusion in my pocket—it plays music, too. For a cost I can get my strength to scream at incredible speeds on stretches of asphalt. The asphalt is a liquid, after all. In centuries to come it will spill through the ground and leave my strength without a single place to roam. My house will fall, possibly melting away like the snow that kept my family home today. The snow didn’t amount to much, and neither will my effort. Soon it will all turn back to weakness. But the clouds look nice today.