There once was a planet who was both sick and beautiful. Chemicals rode through her that she did not put there. Animals drowned in her eyeballs that she did not put there— animals she could not warn against falling in because she was of them, not separable from them. Define sick, the atmosphere asked. So she tried: she made a whale on fire somehow still swimming and alive. See? she said. Like that, kind of. But the atmosphere did not understand this, so the planet progressed in her argument. She talked about the skin that snakes shed, about satellites that circled her like suitors forever yet never said a word. She talked about the shyness of large things, how a blueberry dominates the tongue that it dies on. She talked and talked and the atmosphere started nodding— you could call this a revolution, or just therapy. Meanwhile the whale spent the rest of his life burning (etc., etc., he sang a few songs). When he finally died his body, continuing to burn steadily, drifted down to the ocean floor. And although the planet had long since forgotten him—he was merely one of her many examples—he became a kind of god in the eyes of the fish that saw him as he fell. Or not a god exactly, but at least something inexplicable. Something strange and worth briefly turning your face toward.