My heat is on and my windows are down, and Ziggy Stardust looks on. And I would read The Corrections a thousand times over had I but world enough and time. And you all inform every moment, every street, every film, the way I-4 changes its cadence in Lakeland, the way I drink my wine. And I fall asleep later and later and dream of waking up late for my 4 p.m. shift. And my manager yells at me, but holds my hair when I throw up, and I couldn’t live without her, or any of them, and I think about leaving, but I can’t take the cold, and I sleep in my smoky hair on my clean sheets, and I wake up so late.