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The short story: a solo writing-game about a cold post-apocalypse. The real story: Eleven months ago I made a bad poem that started like this: Before the storm we laid around the campfire. It was dark outside, purely because there was simply nowhere to find light. We were afraid. There was a place to delve into, a secret to uncover. Facts have few holes, nowhere to wriggle into easily. Our brains are simply not the right shape to fit. So huddled and afraid, before the storm, we sang. I salvaged it for the POEM HAM NOW jam, and made something pretty elegant.