I would have known what to say for the past thirty years, that I could have convinced everyone I have ever met to do whatever it took to not get here, where the sun is a faded saffron blot and the world burns every summer, and the bees are dying, and the glaciers are melting, and the ocean is full of plastic, and I told you already, I’m not coping very well, standing here constructing narratives of things I should have said to a stranger on a plane while burning out my retina.
