Ryan Downum I Search in the Dark for a Tiny Apocalypse Sunlight sprouts from a pot of dirt and I shake myself clean in the breeze. I tightly clutch some made-up algorithm and walk into the forest. Sometimes I only want to eat ice cream with a tiny spoon. There is a certain oblique feeling opening its many mouths, an act of sincerity like stuffing a mailbox full of ribbons and bows, constructing a birdhouse where there was no birdhouse before. A knock on the door and the clouds shift slightly southward. When I think about my fears I do so mathematically. I draw shapes I don't know the names of then bless the crooked sky.