It comes with each passing day, the weather does, the way it comes, and each day of its passing I find myself passing away, not that way, but being passed away, swept along one day to the next, sweeping me like the wind which the weather generates, dispensing me into the next day, etc, etc, you understand, that with passing comes passage and a need to be deposited, dispensed, onto the other side of the proverbial door frame of time, slid through it (the doorframe) like a knife through the ribs, but far less intrusive, like the ribs (or what was behind them: the heart or a lung or some such other vital organ) welcomed or was welcoming to the entry of the knife, is how the following day, treats me—me, my nose knifelike and sliding, being swept through our door frame or ribs (whichever simile gives you the clearest picture of how I am passed through by the sweeping weather), sleeping in my bed, a true slumber, a Grade-A sleeping toward the new dawn’s door frame, a swift sweeping motion of the rib-knife is my tossing and my turning and even my lying still, is my violent thrashing and my violet dreaming of flowers I cannot name, the blooming on the sheets in the space where the sheets, wet, lie clung to my ribcage, bleeding in likely my dream or my sleep, the way one might urinate as a child, but far more extreme and with unbelievably higher stakes, being a matter of life and death, of breathing and not breathing as the night wears on and I am asleep, deeply slumbering in my sheets with this knife (which I have decided to be the better simile, considering the severity of the thing I am trying to convey) slid between my ribs in a sweeping motion: that very same motion with which this weather, cold as steel, passes me through from one day to the following, the way one might slide through a dark door frame, to see what is vital on the other side.