Meet me in the soggy bottom of the alphabet, among the leftover Zs. The curtain has come down on our last big scene like a deluge. I am ready to marry a bear just to gain access to a dry den, feast on truffles, whortleberries, and the succulent larvae of wasps. In a mushroom of one’s own, one’s entire fruiting body can be swaddled in a veil. One can conjure a tin soldier from a poisoned cup.