A cloud loses all its willpower and drops out of the sky, dispersing when it hits the sea like ants dropped on a hot metal floor. The mood of the weather is this: depressed. Even the stars seem to droop, lingering for longer than they have to in the paling sky. You’re standing on the beach where it is actually too cold to be barefoot, but you’re letting the ice-cold water lap at your feet as your legs slowly sink into the sand. You stand triumphant. You become a monument. Trumpets sound, and the sunrise cleaves you neatly in half.