I can't remove the sap, with spots of dust and needles clinging to my love and life lines. The stiff grass blades take their name a little too literally when small connect-the-dots of blood appear on my sweaty finger pads, after running them up the stalks a little too quickly. Every surface here is covered with a crusty pale veneer of dried sea salt, bird feces and the weathered scum of the Northwest's rainy kiss I begin and end each day to the same grey satin sky, which parts on rare occasions for a periwinkle afternoon or rhinestone-studded night. Like a smug curtsey to the desperate below, who know so little of the hot celestial party blazing on just behind our stale, two-tone canopy.