2022 in 100

Some days end with fuschia skies streaked tangerine along the horizon, teasing the darkness for hours. Some days end with sudden gloom that descends just like that the moment we glance away. Some days parade through with parentheses of frosting, morning snow and evening frost, and all aquamarine in between, while some slink along in slow monochrome like liquid gray flannel. Their disguises don’t fool us. We know every day is the same: the chart line jagging up up up, the monotony of news. This month will be the last, we tell ourselves before sleeping. This really is the end.